You call it that, the flower you fling
Lightly aside, the song you sing,
The fan, the glove no longer new.
But to your careless eyes of blue
A bow, a heart that’s fond and true,
Is, like your glove, that worthless thing—
A bagatelle.
While I who prize your glove, your shoe,
The rose that o’er your lips you drew,
Hold worthless spring’s fresh blossoming,