He wonders what manner of grim,
Staves her from writing back to him,
Whilst he waits and muses forlorn:
Why in lieu of roses have cacti grown?

When or where or what nature of blunder,
Has conspired to rift peas of a pod asunder.
With flagging quill on soaked parchment
He slowly bleeds as his young heart is rent.

Perhaps his slumping state my stir the angels,
To rush and gently whisper in her dainty ears,
That like the depths of ocean its surface tumult quell,
Their embrace will dispel their little-big fears.