AFTER A LONG SILENCE.

MY dear, of late a foolish idleness

Has got possession of my pen and ink,

And when I fain would write, I somehow shrink

From clothing fleeting thoughts in lasting dress.

Withal, I do not think of thee the less,

And if I wrote as often as I think,

My letter-chain no day would lack a like,

But every hour would some fond thought express.

In truth, with trifling cares each day rolls by,

And I, their captive, longing to be free,

This heart-born wish most fervently repeat:

"Would I were there! or would that thou wert nigh!"

(For place is nothing, when I'm near to thee,)

And then hope whispers that we soon shall meet.