It is so strange – – cause I’m not poor
Your love hath been not long ago
a fountain for my fond heart’s core…
shoes not needed and I did grow;
and grow I did, not taking heed
of its danger at my feet.
What happy moments in the mount
blest was I with you – not from above.
Now, for that appreciated fount
of nurturing, charming, giving love,
How am I? Shall I dare to tell?
A comfortless unbidden hell.
A well of love – – it may be deep
I trust it is, without a why.
What better? Than in your arms I sleep
in silence and their song of amity.
— such change so black and white but which
my fond heart has made me rich.