WHEN I am riding round the ring no longer, Tell a tale of me; Say, no steed-borne woman's nerve was stronger Than used mine to be. Let your whole soul say it; do: O it will be true! Should I soon no more be mistress found in Feats I've made my own, Trace the tan-laid track you'd whip me round in On the cantering roan: There may cross your eyes again My lithe look as then. Show how I, when clay became my cover, Took the high-hoop leap Into your arms, who coaxed and grew my lover, -- Ah, to make me weep Since those claspings cared for so Ever so long ago! Though not now as when you freshly knew me, But a fading form, Shape the kiss you'd briskly blow up to me While our love was warm, And my cheek unstained by tears, As in these last years! |