Where dimples sat, and should
Her dove-gray cloud to settle ’neath thine eye?
The withering of thy curving cheek
Bespeaks the spending of thy heart.
Lips once full are bruised
By biting of restraint. Wax wiser, dear.
To wane is but to rest and rise once more.
Or she puts the thought in another form in this assurance:
Weary not, O brother!
’Tis apaled, the sun’s gold sink.