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.