I'd have you hear it... but each time so far,
My voice you hush and mock it as it sings;
You run your flawless hand up this guitar,
Then feel my fingers, callused from the strings.

For one who'll love you but not feel it so
You pine and pine, as I fear more and more
That they who cast you off will someday grow
More dear to you than what stays gladly yours.

The hands are many that the earth do ply
To save yours from that selfsame toiling fate;
My own, so sore and strained, can only try
In song your essence to commemorate,
With hope the ruts you walk will not belie
The praises I accord you while I wait.


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