When we’re apart, love seems ineffective --
incapable of off’ring any ease.
All my enjoyments become dejective,
my discontented eye dreads all it sees,
the telephone’s a torture to my ear
that heralds salesmen’s calls or wrong numbers
and, were it not for nervousness and fear,
I’d just abandon all for long slumbers.
Yet, this neurotic state was not always
acute in me as now it seems to be;
before we met, my int’rests could allay --
they now confront me with -- my own ennui.
Thus, when you are gone, my also absent cheer
suggests I am too fond or you too dear.

 
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