You could've copied the dictionary
and it wouldn't have mattered.
Just those beautiful scripted letters
on a page in my hands.

The ink bled through just enough
to saturate the corners of the cursive.
It's all curves and valleys.
A font I could only lust after.

It had soul.
Almost like the very words you wrote
were in direct allusion to the gods;
Like all the connected alphabet fell to the ground
and on it's knees, worshipped you.

I wanted to read everything you took note of
Even, on occasion, your grocery lists.
But then, You could have copied the dictionary
and it wouldn't have made any difference at all.

Music I heard with you was more than music,
And bread I broke with you was more than bread;
Now that I am without you, all is desolate;
All that was once so beautiful is dead.

Your hands once touched this table and this silver,
And I have seen your fingers hold this glass.
These things do not remember you, beloved,--
And yet your touch upon them will not pass.

For it was in my heart you moved among them,
And blessed them with your hands and with your eyes;
And in my heart they will remember always,--
They knew you once, O beautiful and wise.

Milton! thou should’st be living at this hour:
England hath need of thee: she is a fen
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life’s common way,
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.