Nicole Vacherot|

I carry tiny envelopes; here
Lettered upon my breast
Of tender words, too dear
I never can confessed
To you, my tormentor, are they addressed
And sealed with waxing tears
In heart's quill I find coalesce;
From your neglect, my prayers!
As these epistles writ in passion's rite
Fall mute upon thine ears
My lips succumb; lone recite:
I shan't love thee next year!
In time these tiny missives of heart;
Will blot with beating fade
Being left unread; in part
That I had not your aid