Analysis of Quod

Unslept hours--long and weary visit me
Accusing why I do not enjoy the night,
When there is wind that sings a cantabile.

While our neighbors' cats prowl the roof,
I think of you by the window,
And seek your face in nothingness.

I shout and call your name . . .
And my eyes are wet with tears.

You are a prison I cannot break.
Who can I turn to for help?

Shall I lean upon the wind?
Even when my heart sings its serenade,
I cannot lean upon the wind.
Only on you, I can--and your song.

So, my beloved Christine--
Sing! Sing! Sing to me!