Classic Poem

They say that she is fickle,
That all my love is vain,
That ere the shining sickle
Is hushing down the grain,
She will betray and show her
Unfaithfulness to me—
How little do they know her,
For that could never be.

And so the foolish prattle
Falls on a careless ear,
For all their tales and tattle
Are laughable to hear.
Such gossip does not hold me;
For that she loves me well
Her eyes and lips have told me—
What more is there to tell?