Longing

It’s nine o’clock at night,
Come ten you’ll ‘gin to write;
You’re not a lot in sight,
And yet I get your light.

In mind I find it, dear,
Where you shine true and clear,
Yet now how lonely I
That I can’t spy your eye.

To spy your eye and face,
To face you in your place,
To ken your pencil’s grace
While lines of mine you trace.

O Love, O Love, my own,
O heart, dear part of me,
The only one I’ve known
I strongly long to see.

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