6

Your letters denatured into sounds,
I am sorry that I read them;
And while your hand sought refuge
Underneath the pen's brimstone,
I held on tight to what I saw
And hoped it was for me.

Now and then my heart still pounds
That you should seem a madman;
My rain was but your deluge,
My effort but your tiring loan -
I held on tight to what you saw
And hoped you'd still see me.