Oh, who can measure the lonely nights or the long and dreary days,
The weary wait, and the hope deferred that the sight of that word conveys,
How eager you read each printed page, and list for Postie’s ring,
For something to ease the aching heart, in tidings that he may bring.
Perhaps he is lying too ill to write, or letters have gone astray,
There are so many things can happen now; your reason from day to day.
What words can comfort the lonely heart as the days and weeks go by,
And life is dark with a nameless dread and courage and hope must die.
Oh the lonely ones who sit and wait for the tidings that never come,
Though the tearful eyes the sorrows speak, yet the trembling lips are dumb.
And each one must their burden bear while the river of life doth flow,
But the aching void in a broken heart there’s no one but God can know.
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