By the leafless, winter trees,
in the frozen, biting breeze,
I compose love lines for you,
like I penned when love was true.
On this sunless, shaded shore,
solemn, silent, insecure;
I tell God I love you still,
with a love He cannot kill.
In my garret’s gloomy grey
I stow my sad self away.
Put my pen to page to pour
pain between the lines, still raw.
At the place you’d sat and cried
when you knew your love had died,
I sit now, alone, to weep
o’er a love I felt too deep.