I gave my poems to a man,
Who said that they were very great--
They showed just how my love began
And ended, but too intimate

To give to read to every one.
I took my book and left him there,
And went out where the sinking sun
Was calling stars into the air.

He thought that I had let them look
Privily in behind the bars,
Had sold my secret with a book--
I cursed him and I cursed the stars.