Before I lost my love, he said to me:
‘ Sweetheart, I like deep azure tints on you.’
But I, perverse as any girl will be
Who has too many lovers, wore not blue.
He said,‘ I love to see my lady's hair
Coiled low like Clytie's — with no wanton curl.’
But I, like any silly, wilful girl,
Said,‘ Donald likes it high,’ and wore it there.
He said,‘ I wish, love, when you sing to me,
You would sing sweet, sad things — they suit your voice.’
I tossed my head, and sung light strains of glee —
Saying,‘ This song, or that, is Harold's choice.’
But now I wear no colour — none but blue.
Low in my neck I coil my silken hair.
He does not know it, but I strive to do
Whatever in his eyes would make me fair.
I sing no songs but those he loved the best.
( Ah! well, no wonder: for the mournful strain
Is but the echo of the voice of pain,
That sings so mournfully within my breast. )
I would not wear a ribbon or a curl
For Donald, if he died from my neglect —
Oh me! how many a vain and wilful girl
Learns true love's worth, but — when her life is wrecked.