I may tend, 'gainst the wind, finding wee rest soon;

this evenin' even, Dearest, Favorite Friend, whom

I may seek now & then to swoon. When mere rest stays this hand, 'neath midday stars or midnight sands, I speak! I sing! I croon! I ne'er want to let you go, tho your body is not here to hold in this land where you fear to turn. Can you naught see that I love you so? Pray tell me that you can, and know that I know you know -and you may e'en one day my love return.