She’s every thought with him.
The day goes on, and everywhere
He turns, he sees her in his mind;
He’s never, ever felt this way.
He’s never known love’s silken bind,
Or fallen with his heart a-splay,
Or lived each moment in the day
Fixated on one person.
The night comes on, and all the time,
He tries to sleep, but finds no rest.
But he will not some stalker be:
These feelings, they must be suppressed,
For they are not returned. And she,
In untoward serenity
Must be left to her passion
For he is not someone for her,
Although she’s every thought with him;
But this is love’s unfairness; it’s
An ancient, endless
Youth: when, if someone
Helps you, it’s
Not the right someone
= = = = =
[Not to imply that being young means being ungrateful – this is more a “matters of the heart” thing. – Owen]
“He hasn’t any hope / That she will ever look his way …”
He hasn’t any hope that she
Will ever look his way;
It’s just an idle fantasy
That comes on him each day
It isn’t his to stand by her
The day she’s dressed in white;
It won’t be his to see her
Mid the wonders of the night
He will not ever touch her,
And she will not ever know
That one who loved her truly
Set his heart to let her go
Is it a loss to give up
What we never really had?
I think it is; but there you are.
In truth, it’s kind of
Unrequited love is the most commonly practiced kind, I think.
And she watches
And she waits –
And he wishes she
Knew how long he’s waited for her