Last night I wrote a letter to my friend:
I said, "Come back, we two are getting old;
Our separate lives wear on; the years are cold,
And loneliness grows bitter toward the end."
I called you back, but you shall not behold
Those wise, sad words that my desire has penned;
Last night I wrote what I shall never send,
The page your white hands never shall unfold.
There in my desk it lies; pride guards the key;
And pride, alas, is stronger than desire.
Years hence perhaps some stranger, pityingly,
Will yield the faded secret to the fire,
Where it will join in dust those separate dead,
Sorrow who wrote and Love who never read.