O, ponderous heart, wherefore dost thou findeth favor in his indifference?

In the sleepy hush of twilight, Where the shadows often play, Lives a boy with pretty eyes, Who is so very far away. 

His voice, a gentle melody, Soft as evening's sigh, Wraps around my weary heart, Like clouds up in the sky. 

The miles stretch between us The stars they know my plight, To dance among the moonlit fields, To be there, just one night. 

But fate, it weaves its tapestry, 

With threads of wishing spun, Yet in my heart, he lingers still, A sweet, elusive one. 

So here, in lines of longing, I etch my silent plea, To the lovely boy with pretty eyes, Who holds a piece of me

[I penned this poem in a letter, dispatch'd by swiftest post, And now, with trembling hand, I await his gaze. Might he regard me as peculiar in my musings? Ah, the torment of uncertainty weighs heavy upon my heart!]