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!