Perhaps, mon cher, if I were not so worked,
If life allowed me respite now and then,
In deepest shadow duty didn't lurk,
If I had time to ever lay my pen
Aside and rest my aching hand—If I
Had time to simply be, to take a day
And hide from all the world; if I could buy
A moment's peace and rest me from this way
Of life; perhaps, mon cher, perhaps then we
Could find a space to make us something more.
Perhaps I'd find capacity to be
The girl to whom you whisper, "Je t'adore."
But no, it cannot be, at least this year.
Already work is centerstage, I fear.
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