Think not, dear love, because my cheek
With grief grows neither grey nor hollow,
Because no pharmacist I seek
In quest of arsenic to swallow,
Because I do not wince and weep
By day and night for cardiac pains,
That my fond passion falls on sleep,
Or, secondly, my worship wanes.
For these are strenuous days of strife
That steel the soul of every Briton;
Sterner and stronger grows our life
Till simple bards become hard-bitten;
So when, each Thursday, I propose
(As usual) to wed my fair,
I frankly find her changeless "No's"
Not half so poignant as they were.
* * * * *