Swoon, my dear, in sorrow for yourself;
lick the tears from the corners of your mouth.
Here is where the last melody
stirs the lovely hair upon your scalp:
grieve for the laboring wings a-beat to south.
Peer, sweet one, in the mirror of your worth;
fog the glass with the sweetness of your breath.
Each perfect line will blur to gray,
each sigh obscure a fine delight;
mourn a while the reflections of your death.
Why should not sweet girls be sad? Here
is the figuring forth of delights you never had.
The busy sawing of the violins,
the braying of the horns, they'll never guess
the opportunities you missed for being bad.