Sweet Cynthia, if all eyes were to be oval,
And strands of stranded hair becomes vocal
Or all lips became black like my knee,
I’ll equate them all to this beauty I see.
If ever I had to pay in kind,
Wouldn’t your eyes be more refined
Than the blue diamond, and fearless?
Wouldn’t nature be as patient as it’s sleepless?
You have been so unfair to flowers
Whose early morning beauty withers
And are no match to your presence
Or to the ordinary casual frown on your face.
When out to the open we came
With our love’s feet sore and lame
I alone was singled out
Whereby came the moan and the shout
And my misery abound, that crazy sound;
That wandering restlessness, that ugly rebound
That weighs heavily on my shoulder
And makes me weary and somewhat sober.
Should the brightest star fall today at your feet
Cynthia, it signals the fall of one of my teeth.
If a strand of your hair falls any day
It means one of mine has no place to stay.