Deep in late, the hour of these thoughts. For in dreams then I may see her. If but the day before seen upon my sleeping eyes, then all the night’s slumber was for naught. In wonder, all the why I’ve not seen her, if even a second in passing. On awakening, I still know she is away.
That my day will labor, in the hellfire of bright sun and absent breeze, and I could care but less. That a measure of sweetness will drive me through all toil and sweat.
If it would be from her. If only the dream of her.
That wait in what light and work I must do until the day’s very end, I gladly bear. Tired shoulders, beaten brow and eyes so tired they want no more than to close for a moment, then for a night.
All worth it in every while. In every hour past that final ray of twilight. In that realm I may see her, as it seems if she pleases.
There, I will wait. There, I will smile. For if my heart is given, it can be only so, and even in the duré of eternity would be but blurry sight and faint sounds until she arrives. For in that glow she has, all worry, all inpatience disappears.
Just for her.