Song

(on a turn of phrase from “In Ampezzo” by Trumbull Stickney)

When we had just begun

I’d many a love, but none

so far outshone the rest;

and when we had progressed

from crocus to heartsease

no other face could please.

The loveliest I had known

possessed but a fault, but one:

that she was she, not you.

Had you her beauty, too,

I couldn’t have loved you better

for such a minor matter.

I sang but a song, but one,

under the summer sun

while south winds warmed the shore;

for I loved but a love, no more,

and the viol played on alone

when the last white bird had flown.

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