With hands discreet and slow
Richly dress your little woe
While day is nigh;
Veil your burning hair with black,
Weight all your pretty back
With weeds that cry “alack!”
To every passer by.
Make of it day long a becoming show,
Yet he who caused it well doth know
How in dreaming every night,
Your spirit, like a rainbow dight,
Doth dance down sorrow,
With the lewd Harlequin To-morrow.