To A Lady Asking Foolish Questions

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Why am I sorry, Chloe? Because the moon is far:
  And who am I to be straitened in a little earthly star?

  Because thy face is fair? And what if it had not been,
  The fairest face of all is the face I have not seen.

  Because the land is cold, and however I scheme and plot,
  I cannot find a ferry to the land where I am not.

  Because thy lips are red and thy breasts upbraid the snow?
  (There is neither white nor red in the pleasance where I go.)

  Because thy lips grow pale and thy breasts grow dun and fall?
  I go where the wind blows, Chloe, and am not sorry at all.

© Ernest Christopher Dowson