For your dear sake I worked my own soul wrong,
Yea, gave you all my splendid roses, wet
With dew of my heart's blood, O sweet, and set,
Upon your brow a diadem of song.

These boons you blandly took—as though they were
A thing as fleeting as the thin sea-foam,
Or any gift of fruit or honey-comb—
With the light smile of those who do not care…