your blue skirts, travelling the sward
the towers of your seminary,
listen to your teachers old and contrary
believing a word.
the white fillets then about your hair
think no more of what will come to pass
bluebirds that go walking on the grass
chattering on the air.
your beauty, blue girls, before it fail;
I will cry with my loud lips and publish
which all our powers shall never establish,
is so frail.
I could tell you a story which is true;
know a lady with a terrible tongue,
eyes fallen from blue,
her perfections tarnished—yet it is not long
she was lovelier than any of you.