How many boring hours must I spend
In whiling away myself while you are gone?
I know these days will, in time, have an end,
But for the moment all they do is spawn
An utter boredom that I cannot shake.
The poems I inevitably make
Will not, cannot, be quite enough to turn
A day of boredom into something better
While I am battered in this quiet churn
Tied in my boredom by your absent fetter.
It never is your fault; I cannot blame
You or the fates, but merely my own soul
Which without you feels trembling and lame
Far from its sense of purpose and its goal.
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