My Sweet’ is tired to bone, so weary he.
He sleeps in bed with cat beside, while write
I: Love I feel ev’n though him I not see.
‘Tis good to write of Love—makes world aright.
Much strain have we in past and now—o’r life
Is busy, harried, tough, I say—though less
So each other we do keep—not rife
With pressure that we make o’rselves, we rest.
We rest in peace—asleep is he, while I
Do write my sonnets, love the best, and rest
The peace we find in home of o’rs–not lie.
Sleep on, my Paul, refresh the spirit, soul.
Love we do make for each so much, no dole.