We shared a pen as though a common voice,

For many miles withheld the touch of hand;

Your scented letters made my heart rejoice

As surely as fine gifts from foreign lands.

I checked the post on nearly every morn—

No sweeter joys to find on paper white,

And read aloud in tones to words adorn,

Your sprightly visage dancing in my sight.

As ways led on to ways and ardor waned,

The sun arose each day and birds would sing;

Thin bonds of ink that distance ever strains,

Seemed faded as the visions they would bring.

It isn’t that I had no more to say…

But simply that my life got in the way.