In a dreary summer night thine pen screams
Aloud in agony of pregnancy overdue,
For a fortnight and another have passed since
From its burdened womb a word or two last roused.

Do cry, dear one, and then forgive,
For this raging pain shall break not
Into words, but into more pain furtive,
Whose shards would prick and pinch and hurt.

The starless monlit skies could not
The radiance in her eyes outshine, nor overwhelm,
Which burgeoned with love, lots of love,
And wailed and hoped, in naught but vain.