Classic Poem

Yes, I know that you once were my lover,
But that sort of thing has an end,
And though love and its transports are over,
You know you can still be—my friend:
I was young, too, and foolish, remember
(Did you ever hear John Hardy sing?)—
It was then the fifteenth of November,
And this is the end of the spring!

You complain that you are not well-treated
By my suddenly altering so;
Can I help it?—you're very conceited,
If you think yourself equal to Joe.
Don't kneel at my feet, I implore you;
Don't write on the drawings you bring;
Don't ask me to say, ‘I adore you,’
For, indeed, it is now no such thing.

I confess, when at Bognor we parted,
I swore that I worshipped you then—
That I was a maid broken-hearted,
And you the most charming of men.
I confess, when I read your first letter,
I blotted your name with a tear—
But, oh! I was young—knew no better,
Could I tell that I'd meet Hardy here?

How dull you are grown! How you worry,
Repeating my vows to be true—
If I said so, I told you a story,
For I love Hardy better than you!
Yes! my fond heart has fixed on another
(I sigh so whenever he's gone),
I shall always love you—as a brother,
But my heart is John Hardy's alone.