TO VERA, WHO ASKED A SONG.

IF I only had time!

I could make you a rhyme.

But my time is kept flying

By smiling and sighing

And living and dying for you.

The song-seed, I sow it,

I water and hoe it,

But never can grow it.

Ah, traitress, you know it!

What is a poor poet to do?

Ah, let me take breath!

I am harried to death

By the loves and the graces

That crowd where your face is

That lurk in your laces and throng.

Call them off for a minute,

Once let me begin it

The devil is in it

If I can not spin it

As sweet as a linnet, your song!