It's true that being false,
With much beauty and no pollen at all,
Is a sting from the rose to the bee,
Making him court forever,
Until he lies down with the winter freeze,
But beauty is beauty, and is its own pollen,
The brunette still commands me,
Though all is withered and fallen,
If the Creator has deceived me,
With the sin of beauty,
Then His creation,
I love all the more truly,
I'll take him at his word,
And be snared like a hopping bird,
And when I hang by my foot,
Over blue chicory and purple asters on the ground,
Not even her snowy dress,
Could cut me down,
Surely beauty covers many sins,
That enthralls me to icey sleep,
Like the frozen Massachusett pond,
With pastel green sunfish beneath,
For I know he killed to cloth me,
For before a blizzard you see the dance of crows only,
And when the snowfall is too deep,
In the roads only the foxes jump and leap,
But if it be sin to stand in awe,
Then have her kiss me, so I thaw.