And the same old, old trouble starts over again.
The Fates are a trifle hard, putting it mildly,
For they well might have spared me this finishing touch
Of your portrait, which speaking quite calmly yet Wildely,
I admire all the more since I hate it so much.
I shall treasure it, though. Thanks—a thousand—to you, dear.
When in sweet meditation your fancy runs free,
Is it asking too much that a stray thought or two, dear,
From your kindness of heart may come straying to me?