the first time that the sun rose on thine oath

to love me, i looked forward to the moon

to slacken all those bonds which seemed too soon

and quickly tied to make a lasting troth.

quick-loving hearts, i thought, may quickly loathe;

and, looking on myself, i seemed not one

for such man’s love!—more like an out-of-tune

worn viol, a good singer would be wroth

to spoil his song with, and which, snatched in haste,

is laid down at the first ill-sounding note.

i did not wrong myself so, but i placed

a wrong on thee. for perfect strains may float

’neath master-hands, from instruments defaced,—

and great souls, at one stroke, may do and doat.