Yes, child, I know I am out of tune;
The light is bad; the sky is gray;
I’ll work no more this afternoon,
So lay your royal robes away.
Besides, you’re dreamy—hand on chin—
I know not what—not in the vein:
While I would paint Anne Boleyn,
You sit there looking like Elaine.
Not like the youthful, radiant queen,
Unconscious of the coming woe,