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It’s just a small piece of paper,
 Clean, worn, crumpled, or stained,
But the joy that the sight of it give me
 Has never, no never, been named.

As I look at it I wonder
 Of the strange sights which it has seen.
And I cannot help but want to know
 On whose letter it has been.

Perhaps it’s helped join two lovers,
 But of that who could be sure?
Is it not just as likely
 That it was written from boor to boor?

Is it a man or a lady that put it
 With hands either firm or fine
On this old well-kept envelope
 The color of Burgandy wine?

I can never know, but what difference
 The stamp is, of course, the main thing,
It’s just a small piece of paper
 But joy upon joy it does bring.