I met her, as we had privily planned,

Where passing feet beat busily:

She whispered: “Father is at hand!

   He wished to walk with me.”

His presence as he joined us there

Banished our words of warmth away;

We felt, with cloudings of despair,

   What Love must lose that day.

Her crimson lips remained unkissed,

Our fingers kept no tender hold,

His lack of feeling made the tryst

   Embarrassed, stiff, and cold.

A cynic ghost then rose and said,

“But is his love for her so small

That, nigh to yours, it may be read

   As of no worth at all?

“You love her for her pink and white;

But what when their fresh splendours close?

His love will last her in despite

   Of Time, and wrack, and foes.”

Weymouth.