I LITTLE care to write her praise,
In truth, I little care that she
Should seem as pure in all her ways,
To others, as she seems to me.

At morn a sparrow's note we heard,
His shadow fell across her bed,
She smiled and listened to the bird;
And when the evening twilight red
Fell with the dew, he came again,
And perching on the nearest bough,
Higher and wilder sang the strain-
She did not smile to hear him now.

Many and many years, the light
Thin moonbeams, sheets for her have spread;
And scented clovers, red and white,
Have made the fringes of her bed.

Small care for sitting in the sun
Have I- small care to war with fate:
The wine and wormwood are as one,
Since thou art dead, my pretty mate.