Doeth well...doeth better

My love whose heart is tender said to me,
“A moon lacks light except her sun befriend her.
Let us keep tryst in heaven, dear Friend,” said she,
My love whose heart is tender.

From such a loftiness no words could bend her:
Yet still she spoke of “us” and spoke as “we,”
Her hope substantial, while my hope grew slender.

Now keeps she tryst beyond earth’s utmost sea,
Wholly at rest, tho storms should toss and rend her;
And still she keeps my heart and keeps its key,
My love whose heart is tender.