In An Old Book I Found Her Face Writ By A Dead Man Long Ago - I Found, And Then I Lost The Place; So Nothing But Her Face I Know, And Her Soft Name Writ Fair Below. Even If She Lived I Cannot Learn, Or But A Dead Man'S Dream She Were; Page After Yellow Page I Turn, But Cannot Come Again To Her, Although I Know She Must Be There. On Other Books Of Other Men, Far In The Night, Year-Long, I Pore, Hoping To Find Her Face Again, Too Fair A Face To See No More - And 'Twas So Soft A Name She Bore. Sometimes I Think The Book Was Youth, And The Dead Man That Wrote It I, The Face Was Beauty, The Name Truth - And Thus, With An Unseeing Eye, I Pass The Long-Sought Image By.