To Vera, Who Asked A Song

IF I only had time! I could make you a rhyme. But my time is kept flying By smiling and sighing And living and dying for you. The song-seed, I sow it, I water and hoe it, But never can grow it. Ah, traitress, you know it! What is a poor poet to do? Ah, let me take breath! I am harried to death By the loves and the graces That crowd where your face is That lurk in your laces and throng. Call them off for a minute, Once let me begin it The devil is in it If I can not spin it As sweet as a linnet, your song!