You say that I am fitful. Sweet, ’tis true;

But ’tis that I your fitfulness obey.

If you are April, how can I be May,

Or flaunt bright roses when you wear sad rue?

Shine like the sun, and my sky will be blue;

Sing, and the lark shall envy me my lay:

I do but follow where you point the way,

And what I feel you doing, straight must do.

The wind might just as well reproach the vane,

As you upbraid me for my shiftings, dear:

Blow from the south, and south I shall remain;

If you keep fixed, be sure I shall not veer.

Nay, on your change my changes so depend,

If ends your love, why then my love must end.

Alfred Austin
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