In the pit of the night though cold
is curtained and
fittingly covered is my yearning
for thee, vain
hope decides to unsleep and keep
me wide-eyed
til morning has for certain broken.
When laid low
by memory I find myself clinging
close to thy
pillow and think of that presence
its hollow holds.
At last a slow winning of pale over
grey as dawn's
rosy fingers bid me away, I go to
stay at my
window until tide is high, as this
time it may be
the one that is bringing thee safe
home again.