  Three candles had her cake, Which now are burnt away; We wreathed it for her sake With currant-leaves and bay And the last graces Of Michaelmas Daisies Pluckt on a misty day. Curled (as she cut her cake) In mine her fingers lay; Purple the petals brake, Bruised was the scented bay; Like a yellow moth On the white white cloth One currant-leaf flew away. Three candles lit her state; Dimmed is their golden reign— Leaves on an empty plate, Petals and tallow-stain; Nor will she Nor the candles three Ever be three again. |
|
