Why will you plague me with your loveliness?
Can you not see
How vain is every grace and each caress?
Prithee let be.
Your beauty is no less than when we kept
The summer that we knew;
But it is winter, sweet, you should have slept
The winter through.
For what avail your kisses and your sighs,
The lovely splendour of your tear-bright eyes?
Less than a little wine
Poured out upon the grave
Of some old glad and brave
Dead singer of the vine.
Seamus O'Sullivan (1879 – 1958) Ireland
Source: Verses; sacred and profane, Seamus O'Sullivan, Musnell & Co. Ltd., 1908
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