They sit apart, and shun the dance,
They heed not how the moments fly,—
She trembles ’neath his eager glance,
He bends to catch her low reply:
And clever chaperones nod and smile,
And jealous maidens think they see
That in a very little while
A match will surely be.
But August comes—and left behind
Awhile are operas, balls, and plays;
And “out of sight is out of mind,”
An ancient proverb truly says.
Alas for man’s inconstancy,
And trusting woman’s tenderness,
That love once breathed so ardently
Should thus so soon grow less!
Then, by degrees, as passion cools,
So sordid worldly maxims rise;
And love is deemed a sport for fools,
And gold the only worthy prize;
And vow and promise go for nought
When weighed against the precious ore;
And charms no longer claim a thought,
So matchless deemed before.