There is a certain pleasure, I suppose,
In Being told that someone holds you dear.
There may be joy in believing that you're loved
By someone ever "wishing you were here."
So oft in summer evenings' quiet dusk
I've found myself believing love tales true
It seems I've even dreamed ahead and planned
A rustic vine-clad cottage for we two.
You never cared; I'm certain of it now.
I plan forgetting, but my dreams live still;
There could not be another - none but you . . .
But no! I can forget you, and I will!