An Old Poem of Longing

The hour has passed

but what of those left behind?

Crimson tears fall

as hope drains away.

Ask not the Robin

why her egg did not hatch

ask not amiss.

Ink spreads over pages

an empty book which cannot be filled

No, not for all the writing,

though ink drips from my pen.

Hold in your arms the soft sighs and joys

when the dawn breaks

my aching arms will be soothed

by a tender head.