when thine own hand set upon the page
the lilt of thy pen,
I quaked for the substance contained therein,
and pleased to find was I
spilt abroad those leaves
a bit of heart, a sense of sense,
and calm from the storm.

my thanks to thee, strong maid,
for that heartfelt sweetness
which rolled from thy fingers to my eyes.
nary word more well received
than thine own offerings
to quell the doubtful fires of sad friendship.

thee mayest not doubt firm resolve
of truthful promise,
and neither shouldst thou cast
fearful dreams onto
fancy’s fires.

in truth alone trust freely waxes,
in trusting only does friendship grow.
it seems, I beg, faith’s constant keep
lies dormant in thy soul’s repose.

quoth I, rememberest thou this line,
when only self-borne strength survives,
and doubt is full while hope grows thin:

fear thou not he who from a span
admirest thee in all thine air,

to this thou mayest trust assign.