Enough Rope/A Portrait
A Portrait
BECAUSE my love is quick to come and go—A little here, and then a little there—What use are any words of mine to swearMy heart is stubborn, and my spirit slowOf weathering the drip and drive of woe?What is my oath, when you have but to bareMy little, easy loves; and I can dareOnly to shrug, and answer, “They are so”?
You do not know how heavy a heart it isThat hangs about my neck—a clumsy stoneCut with a birth, a death, a bridal-day.Each time I love, I find it still my own,Who take it, now to that lad, now to this,Seeking to give the wretched thing away.