My Playmate

I LITTLE care to write her praise, In truth, I little care that she Should seem as pure in all her ways, To others, as she seems to me. At morn a sparrow's note we heard, His shadow fell across her bed, She smiled and listened to the bird; And when the evening twilight red Fell with the dew, he came again, And perching on the nearest bough, Higher and wilder sang the strain- She did not smile to hear him now. Many and many years, the light Thin moonbeams, sheets for her have spread; And scented clovers, red and white, Have made the fringes of her bed. Small care for sitting in the sun Have I- small care to war with fate: The wine and wormwood are as one, Since thou art dead, my pretty mate.