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.
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