OUR love was all arrayed in pleasantness,
A tender little love that sighed and smiled
At little happy nothings, like a child,
A dainty little love in fancy dress.
But now the love that once was half in play
Has come to be this grave and piteous thing.
Why did you leave me all this suffering
For all your memory when you went away?
You might have played the play out, O my friend,
Closing upon a kiss our comedy.
Or is it, then, a fault of taste in me,
Who like no tragic exit at the end?