We are much greater than a novel is;
No novelist could think, or even write,
The dear, sweet honest love that lives in us.
There may be dreams that shine as nearly bright,
But we are real, and nothing else will do
Except the beauty that is me and you.
Swift pages of a novel may inspire
Its readers to climb higher up a hill,
Or long short story build in them a fire
That keeps them going strong, and not lie still,
But you, my love, and I, are fairy-land,
A place beneath the face, within the hand,
That soars and sings, and needs no ground to start,
For where we’re found is in the true-love heart.