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.