There are mountains high enough,
And oceans wide enough,
And armies can keep me from you,
For I am made of meagre bone and dust,
A weakling, a beggar, a coward and simpleton,
Who cannot contrive to make imaginings a reality.
But nothing is so deep as longing for you,
Nothing is so long as the passing of hours that await you,
Nothing is so triumphant as the certainty of you,
Nothing is so vast as my hope for you,
Nothing else is you,
Or could ever be you.