Dear Book

Dear book which my dear Love is writing,
Oh, were I you, ‘t would be exciting,
To feel her hand my pages press
When penc’lling in her happiness.

Oh, were I you, her love I’d feel
Through every neat-lined syllable,
And I would lie in state ideal
While growing daily great and full.

Her eyes divine, while work did she,
Would clasp me with their loving glow,
And I, held fastened, under she,
Would joy I did not freedom know.

I’d be so glad to be her mate,
And feel her kiss me now and then
When she is writing—up so late—
Or in the morn begins again.

Her mate, her book, her secret, dear,
So precious–I now jealous be,
And down this page there runs a tear.
Oh, that her dear book was me!

Advertisements
This entry was posted in Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s