[ 43 ]

You should be gone in winter, that Nature mourn

With me your anarch separation, call-

ing warmth all with you: as more poetical

Than to be left biting the dog-days, lorn

Alone when all else burgeons, brides are born,

Children yet (some) begotten, every wall

Clasped by its vine here . . crony alcohol

Comfort as random as the unicorn.

Listen, for poets are feigned to lie, and I

For you a liar am a thousand times,

Scars of these months blazon like a decree:

I would have you—a liner pulls the sky—

Trust when I mumble me. Than gin-&-limes

You are cooler, darling, O come back to me.