She sat there in the straight-back chair,
With elbows on the table;
A pen lay by her hand, astray,
And paper on the table.

She thought of what she’d write her love,
But yet she wasn’t able;
The roots were much too deep for her,
And wouldn’t rise for label.

“Oh love, too dear for words too new,
At least, too new to me;
Oh love, I can but ache and sigh,
Now chained, and oh so free!

“Oh gentle beats that through me thrill
With soundless, loudest song,
Contain yourself, or I’ll not ‘dure
Your hungry babbling throng!

“My love, he’s on some far-off seas;
My letter waits, I know.
I’ll write it yet, if I have wit
To state love’s overflow.”

Awhile she sits and seems to see
A child alone, a-wait,
That hero might come in her sight
Who heeds no fear or fate.

Her hand now grasps the pen somehow—
Her mind has grasped its story—
And now is pen and ink all his
In overflowing glory!