Songs We Like to Sing
Published 1912
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss within the cup,
And I'll not ask for wine;
The thirst that from the soul doth rise,
Doth ask a drink divine,
But might I of Jove's nectar sip,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much hon'ring thee,
As giving it a hope that there
It could not withered be;
But thou there-on didst only breathe,
And sent'st it back to me,
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.
© 1999, Lynn Waterman