One bright stray jewel - What made it stray? Was I cold or cruel, At the close of day?

Oh, do not cry, lass! What is crying worth? There is no lass like my lass In the whole wide earth.

When people tell me they have loved But once in youth, I wonder, are they always moved To speak the truth?

Not that they wilfully deceive: They fondly cherish A constancy which they would grieve To think might perish.

They cherish it until they think `Twas always theirs. So, if the truth they sometimes blink, `Tis unawares.

Yet unawares, I must profess, They do deceive Themselves, and those who questionless Their tale believe.

For I have loved, I freely own, A score of times, And woven, out of love alone, A hundred rhymes.

Boys will be fickle. Yet, when all Is said and done, I was not one whom you could call A flirt--not one