To the field where I was lying
Once Sorrow came a-flying,
And bade me bring my heart to mould at her goodwill.
Shudd’ring, I turn’d aside;
“Avaunt! O fiend!” I cried,
“My heart is dear to me, and none shall work it ill!”
“But if thou must!” said she.
“Nay,” said I, “let it be!
’Tis yet so young and tender, and so slight of make,
Ungentle touch would crush it,
Hard word for aye would hush it!”
She smiled, and said, “Hearts sooner turn to stone than break!”
“Yet stay awhile!” I pray’d;
And, frowning, she obey’d;
While I to cast about my sentence to evade.
Then came she near again,
And hover’d o’er the plain
Where I sat listening to my darling’s long love-story.
“Art ready now?” she cried:
“O, no! no!” I replied,
“My heart is now in all its fullest prime and glory!”
A third time came she near:
“Now!” said she, “now prepare!
For I must have thy heart to mould at my good pleasure!”
“Here, take it!” I replied,
And pluck’d it from my side
(For I in sooth was half a-weary of my treasure).
“But what is this?” says she,
And flung it back to me;
“A stone! O traitor! thou shalt rue this jesting turn!”
She wing’d her flight away,
And I to shriek and pray
For that dear angel, who would never more return.