Memoirs of a longing lover.

Dove, signet of purity you are Upon your wing, they tell me, you carry the whispers of love Tell me, wouldst thou in gentle grace bear my words to mine love Mine who from my arms hath been torn My heart doth bleed, not shattered but aching Be my envoy to a land distant Where the vines of woe weave their tendrils And strangle the tender stem of love ere it may bloom Tell her my heart is in distress And with the many passing moons it only grows fonder Nothing I can do For it yearns for it's other half Take flight to a faraway land Over ridges valleys and heights Carry this song with you The melody of a longing lover; slow and sombre Coo these words to her soul "Thine love awaits you in his embrace He frets to think of you in the arms of another Love is a languor," says he, "an affliction he will never overcome" This will be the verse you sing to her: Estranged, indeed we are Fiends and devils, we are put asunder Yet the rhythm of my song only grows stronger Let it thus, reach thine ears From you I have no other And I will wait by the stoop Till mine love is come home. Bless you, Dove.