From The Detroit Times, June 10, 1915.

The postman passes by, his steps tell plainly
    He hasn’t any mail to leave for me;
Or should he stop, my eyes must still seek vainly
    The one handwriting I so long to see.
Even a picture postal card were better
    Than leaving me without a single sign;
Another day gone by, and still no letter,
    Dear daughter, can’t you drop me just a line?

Why are you silent? I have often written
    When it was, strictly speaking, not my turn.
Have you with pen paralysis been smitten,
    Or what new lesson would you have me learn?
Am I impatient, in too great a hurry,
    You pressed with duties harder to decline?
Oh, daughter, it would save a heap of worry
    If you would drop your father just a line.

Perhaps there’s some mistake; a heedless sentence
    Penned without thinking may have caused you pain;
Perhaps I rate too high my independence;
    Perhaps you think me frivolous and vain;
Or my poor jests in earnest you were taking.
    Oh, could you read this secret heart of mine,
You’d know, dear child, how near it is to breaking,
    And drop your lonely father just a line.