MY dear, of late a foolish idleness
Has got possession of my pen and ink,
And when I fain would write, I somehow shrink
From clothing fleeting thoughts in lasting dress.
Withal, I do not think of thee the less,
And if I wrote as often as I think,
My letter-chain no day would lack a like,
But every hour would some fond thought express.
In truth, with trifling cares each day rolls by,
And I, their captive, longing to be free,
This heart-born wish most fervently repeat:
"Would I were there! or would that thou wert nigh!"
(For place is nothing, when I'm near to thee,)
And then hope whispers that we soon shall meet.