Woe to my heart—it will not feignIndifference; though you withhold, 'tis pain.
And should you distance yourself from me,In absence I grow fuller in my constancy.
You are, you are my hope alone,Whether near you come or far you have flown.
So keep your letters coming, for I findYour written words breathe rose-scent to my mind.
I find your speech surpassing sweet,As though pure honey lay in every word complete.
Your discourse is honey—but to meIt seems a rose more fragrant still to be.
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