Timing

I hate to miss her when I had a chance
To even see the words that she might send;
The feeling that such slight acquiantance plants
Within me is so far beyond the end
Of all that I could hope for that I know
Its worth is higher than whatever I
Might do instead. I cannot let her go:
Or if I do, I must repine and sigh
For having done so. Missing her is hell,
Every word she sends a precious jewel,
That for a world of gold I would not sell,
Nor for a new Arabia of fuel.
And yet I missed her. What to say of that
But that the world sometimes is dull and flat.