Classic Poem

My tiny lady, can it
Be true that you and I,
On something called a planet,
Are somewhere in the sky?

Yes—and at such a tearing
And madcap speed we've spun,
That you, with dreadful daring,
Have thrice been round the sun.

Nay, it yet more amazes,
That my far-venturing girl
Can be as fresh as daisies
After so wild a whirl!

And now 'neath western billow
The sun is put to bed,
And you, too, on your pillow
Must lay a golden head.

Ah, tears—they come so quickly,
For grief so quickly gone!
Yet joys have rained as thickly,
For you to dream upon.