A Promise

Thy woe is mine — for thou hast held my heart
So long it is become one pulse with thine,
Thy woe is mine, though I be far apart
From thee and voice of thee thy woe is mine.
I can but grieve with thee for who may move
The fates above us, words are all too weak
To give the comfort that thy heart would seek.
Wait but a little and I come to thee,
Wait but a little, woman of my Love,
And more shall be than barren words alone.
The comfort of a lover's sympathy
Where lip is set to lip with no word said,
The comfort of my arm about thy head,
And thy heart beating up against mine own.