I walk these lonely hills for you
Like a ship adrift at sea,
Wishing you’d come to take the helm
And rescue myself from me.

Bonaparte on Saint Helena
Knew not of my captivity,
Reclusive, exiled from power,
Parted from you, ma sweet cherie.

The leaves have grown, the trees have, too;
My anxiety ever grows
Like blossoms trapped under snow drifts
With tears freezing as they transpose.

Chirping birds call for you in spring,
And we both wait out your reply
So intent we barely notice
That the strong young have learned to fly.

I see the sun seeking by day,
And the moon mourns with me each night.
Often the spirits of the dead
Watch me with pity at twilight.

Years ago now we were to meet
To elope from this dense wildwood.
I wait. Love and hope never die;
If they were true they never could.

That night the storms blew around thick
Like a mine collapsing on me.
Surely the storm kept you away.
Why haven’t you yet come for me?

The wildwood is still undisturbed
Like the love that I have for you,
Though many moons have seen me wait
Unphased by the cold, heat, and dew.

I’ll wait for you, until I die,
And then should you come, love’d heal me,
Unlike the bones of some poor man
Whose love visits him faithfully

On the self-same day that we should
Have had our anniversary.
Her finger’s bare. She kneels. She cries.
Would you cry those same tears for me?

She found him years after I did;
He lies defunct in the ravine.
He must have taken a faux-pas
And stepped right into the unseen.

The more she comes, the more fancy
Starts to run away with my mind.
For though she’s old and weary now,
She looks more like you all the time.