My Love

My love is like the red, red rose,

     Which opes beneath the eye of all;

All summer long it nod and blooms,

     Then drops to pieces in the fall.

My heart is like the weather vane,

     Which each new gust of wind doth whirl;

Upon a pivot it is hung

     And points to each new comely girl.

c. April 5, ‘93

Pub. in Conn.

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