The hardest part of every single day
Is letting go of you. Why must you rise
When even day has not? That, sure, denies
The meaning given to the predawn grey
Which must have been a signal crying "stay
In bed" to us. The sun himself still lies
Down in the lake and false flame strangely dyes
The west horizon; why must you away?
And yet I know the reason, and desire
That you should go when your necessity
Compels you to, even away from me;
Nor would I have you think I am a liar
When I say that I care for you. But I
Cannot shake off the urge to keep you by.
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