Welt

Would I might mend the fabric of my youth
Which daily flaunts its tatters to my eyes,
Would I might compromise awhile with truth
Until love’s moon, now waxing, wanes and dies.

For I would go a further while with you
And draing this Cup of Joy so passing fair,
Which meets my parching lips like cooling dew
’Ere time has brushed cold fingers through my hair.