In every moment of the passing day
I am incessantly reminded of
What I would have, and how it is away:
This constant memory I have named love.
For when I wander, wheresoe'er I go
I find my mind forever turns about
All thoughts of her, and so I do not know
What it would be like to exist without
That ever-present thought, that endless yearning
To know of her, and think of how she's doing,
My brain forever wriggling and churning
About new ways of pleasing and of wooing.
It must be love, for nothing else erases
My other thoughts in quite so many places.
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