The painted World has laid her jewels down,
Let fall the pinchbeck hair about her face
And croons a love song. In a far-off place
Where she was strutting in her silken gown
She met the Youth. His face was young and brown.
“Good day to you,” she cried, the frosty lace
About her shoulders trembled. Ah — disgrace!
He turned, and left her weeping in the town.
She smiles not any more, her heart disdains
The wind's rough courting, loud and indiscreet.
Her tears dissolve the earth in ceaseless rains
And though her searching steps be light and fleet
Through frowning city or soft country lanes,
Now never more may Spring and Autumn meet.