I was a fool to put your love away, As if it were a treasure I could save For some inevitable rainy day. Love does not ride on every seventh wave, Nor burst with crocus-certainty each spring. Why did the thrifty proverbs of my youth Make me too cautious for this transient thing, And set a spinster Prudence up for Truth? Suppose we meet again and set the stage, Dressing with care to speak our lovers' parts, Will the old words still flash upon the page, Will there be any laughter in our hearts? I was a fool to think that love would linger Until I beckoned with a tardy finger. |