Think you, if this were I,
You would be let to cry?
Were it I, for your sake,
Think you I would not wake?
Ever did you appear
And I not know you near?
When have you found me such,
Cold as a stone to touch?
Seemed I in any mood
Blank as a block of wood?
Gave you I no more heed,
When, than a withered weed? . . .
When, than a lock of hair
Under a barber’s chair?
From Boundaries