He
I envisage
Is but memory,
A ship silently fleeting
At the waves of woe.

He
Was everything
Before hull's breach,
Calling me to lands
Where my best would blossom.

She
Doesn't cure;
She's no nightingale.
She blows at night,
Bringing winds which worry wills.

I
Keep on
Looking to memory,
Ready to set sail
To great distances from disdain.