The days drag past, my heart it aches.
The phone is silent, the Post Office dead.
Non-thoughts and actions my energy takes.
Your letter's worn thin, constantly read.
Although it hasn't come to that, I wonder what you do,
When I pace up and down my eager brain,
Thinking of the loveliness of you,
And wishing the hours would pass like an express train.
In mornings of still mistiness and gloom,
I think of your soul blooming in grace.
As haunting my four-cornered room,
Remembering your freshness and the rosiness of your face.
To wish for more, I would and do.
Of eager days and nights in your sight.
To stride o'er this dull world with you.
And overcome life's problems with embraces so tight.
Though passionate and tender I could claim to be.
Your presence would in me fulfil,
That which I long for you to see,
Beauty, obedience, faith and goodwill.
Your dovelike qualities of face,
Of olive-branch love in times of despair.
The hopes and glories by winning the race,
That the shattered heart may be restored.
This missive I have prepared in a scented dream,
Of ecstasy and future love in life.
For the future I have a wishful scheme,
To ask of your hand and become my wife.
The object of this humble offer,
Which hopefully is executed with finesse,
Is not baronial hall or bulging coffer.
But, children and time-honoured motherliness.
You would I know like those of your own,
To bring up in mutual feelings of the heart.
In a place you could call your ancestral home,
As in the beginning, this would be a start.
Read and re-read this offered tome,
It is the whole truth under oath, of my feelings.
Until your heart's returned to its library home,
It's your love, not pride, which wants steeling.
