The meekest of apologising mortals.
And blame not me, her bard—whose verses weave her
This coronal of memory’s budding-hours,
Who loved her long ago, yet now must leave her
Lorn ’mid the dance’s débris, and the flowers
Which fade as day-dreams of that first deceiver—
Because, while War yet ravens and devours,
While still the blind guns thunder out in Flanders,
I sing the type which cozens and philanders.
For, young as Spring and old as Cleopatra,