isee you now, your autumn gown
in wanton fashion hung,
your crimson scarf half rakishly,
to trifling breezes flung.
i was distressed and sad to think
you did not even care.
but once your harp sang low and sweet
you breathed a solemn prayer.
you sang soft broken numbers
sad as your soul’s distress,
and i loved you no matter how wanton
or scarlet or scanty your dress.
