In sleeping fields beyond the city lays
I know not what, it matters not to me.
In numbered days I craved the craze that brays
In city streets; I think that you are free.
I want to be a good woman, and I
Wanted for you to be my good man, but
I tried my best and could not make you cry
But once. How is it now that I’m away?
Do you sleep soundly? Do you sleep alone?
When you smoke, or when you see the leaves sway,
Do you think of me then? Is this our love, grown?
Won’t you think of me when the city sleeps?
My love, it is for nothing that you weep.
— John Collins