What have I said to you, my love,
To cause such pain and agony?
My precious, tender, lovely dove,
This question haunts me endlessly.
Or, is it something I have done
In ignorance or in foolish pride?
'Tis you I love and you, alone,
So give the answer, do not hide.
Dearest one, I am in pain---
My heart near bursts with agony.
Will e'er I see my love, again?
Is the thought which brings the pain to me.
'Tis not something that you have said,
Nor some bad thing that you have done,
The thought of losing you, I dread;
I, too, love you and you alone.
My sweet, my lovely springborne flower,
What brings this though to trouble you?
Let's brush away the mist this hour.
I cannot bear to see you blue.
I travel now to a distant land.
While I'm there, will our love grow cold?
My darling, take and hold my hand,
My love, more precious than jewels or gold.
How long? The answer I know not,
Perhaps a year, or two, or more.
How lonely am I at the very thought.
What does tomorrow hold in store?
My parents think it best I go
And live with them on that distant shore.
How can I bear it? I do not know.
Why must I leave the one whom I adore.
My darling, sweet and precious thing,
I now can understand your pain.
While you were here I felt like a king,
But, I'm sure we'll meet again.
For you to remain would seem like heaven,
But, perhaps it's better that we wait,
Seeing you are not yet seven
And I have just turned eight.
By L. B. Strawn
March 11, 1979