I have not written since we parted;
Though like as not the words still started.
But quill uninked cannot create.
And ink bleeds out when broken-hearted;
So all my thoughts abate.

Now writing then, do I declare
A misery no longer there?
Or do my words in fact call up
a step of grief entrenched, revenge?
Or is it all of the above?

A silver laugh, the moon is kind
It thinks my heart is silly, too.
Rest now, it bids, and later find
A love more true than this one lost.


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