This page has been validated.
THE INCONSTANT.
And deem'st thou that my heart could be
A trifle and a toy for thee;
A trophy, to be wooed and won;
Taken but to be trampled on!
And deem'st thou that my heart would spring,
A young bird on its summer wing,
To be one moment caged in thine,
Then left, poor prisoner, to pine.
You knew me not if you could deem
I should weep o'er a vanished dream;
The willow was not made for me,
My wreath is of the aspen tree.
There is in southern lands a breeze
Which sweeps with changeless course the seas;
Fixed to one point, oh, faithful gale,
Thou art not for my wandering sail!
