| The moments passed as at a play; |
| I had the wisdom love brings forth; |
| I had my share of mother-wit, |
| And yet for all that I could say, |
| And though I had her praise for it, |
| A cloud blown from the cut-throat
north |
| Suddenly hid Love’s moon away. |
|
|
|
|
| Believing every word I said, |
| I praised her body and her mind |
| Till
pride had made her eyes grow bright, |
| And pleasure made her cheeks grow red, |
| And vanity her footfall
light, |
| Yet we, for all that praise, could find |
| Nothing but darkness overhead. |
|
|
|
|
| We sat as silent as a stone, |
| We knew, though she’d not said a word, |
| That even the best of love must die, |
| And had been savagely
undone |
| Were it not that Love upon the cry |
| Of a most ridiculous little bird |
| Tore from the clouds his marvellous
moon. |