“’Tis absense, however, that makes the heart grow fonder”

The Pocket Magazine of Classic and Polite Literature,

1832, in a piece by a Miss Stickland.

 

If Miss Stickland truly marked the toll,

Love charges on the longing soul,

Her homely language notwithstanding,

She’d see that absence spawns demanding.

 

“Fondness” is what I have for grapes,

Butterflies and frosted flakes.

Fondness for a twilight stroll,

Absence mortifies my soul.

 

Absence presses on my heart

Twists its fist into my chest

Pulls serenity apart

Turns hope into relentless quest.

 

As distance and the day grow long

Absence holds my love at bay

Muffles my exuberant song

Slaps the wish of touch away.

 

In memories I rejoice

In the music of her voice

In hope of meeting someday hence

These I summon for defense

 

Against that fond pretender—

Absence.