What Makes This Hour?

What makes this hour a day to me?
What makes this day a year?
My own love promised we should meet--
But my own love is not here!
Ah! did she feel half what I feel,
Her tryst she ne'er would break;
She ne'er would lift this heart to hope,
Then leave this heart to ache;
And make the hour a day to me,
And make the day a year;
The hour she promised we should meet--
But my own love is not here.

Alas! can she inconstant prove?
Does sickness force her stay?
Or is it fate, or failing love,
That keeps my love away,
To make the hour a day to me,
And make the day a year?
The hour and day we should have met--
But my own love is not here.