Time spent away from her is time ill-spent,
And hours are but wasted when left so.
In that small space of life which heaven lent
To me, which I a reckoning will owe
For every moment of when I am dead,
To have set down "I was not with her then"
Will be to no account. Each moment bled
Out of my tally with her far again
Is as a credit turned across the sheet,
Reddening even in my very sight.
I cannot wait until the time we meet,
And that time lags in my irate despite.
So fill my credits up, put me in black:
I long for her, and soon I will come back.
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