Love was warder to the lovers

From the dawn to even-star.

Wherefore, Love, didst thou betray me?

Where is now the tender glance?

Where the meaning looks once lavished

By the dark-eyed Maid of France?

Where the words of hope she whispered,

When around my neck she threw

That same scarf of broidered tissue,

Bade me wear it and be true—