Day and night I sit pensive and alone,

Seeking just the right words my love to tell,

Words that I hope will melt a heart of stone,

And there in that heart find a place to dwell.

But my labours are all in vain I fear 

And like thistledown on a summer day,

From view, my verse will too soon disappear,

And on the fickle wind be blown away.

While butterflies have their day in the sun,

My words are like those creatures of the night,

Whose unseen lives are all too quickly spun,

Destined never to sparkle in the light.

Hopeless though my foolish yearnings may seem,

With hope, I continue to write and dream.