Tell me not of Love,
For Love is but the knowing of the day.
An ache, a twist, a nod, a smell.
Times you are missed,
Times you are so sweetly known.
It refreshes like the day.
Birthed at the rising of the sun.
It walks with me,
Through morning noon and night.
It is replenished in the darkest hours,
And glows anew as rays spring past,
Horizons dew.
And if we grumble at a dank and rain swept morn,
It is still welcomed,
For in my heart again its joyest comforts,
Are in foetus form reborn.
You had to come as my evening came,
But come you did and nothing now,
Is quite the same,
My dying breath will speak your name.