That thing at which I can claim to excel
In some small measure--though, if I do well,
It is in not, if I will the truth tell--
Does not excite whom I would bring to glee.
I take some comfort that it is not me
Who discommodes her thus, yet I still see
Her turn away from such gifts as I give,
Such gifts as by which I long sought to live.
She holds such gifts as water in a sieve,
As well I know, yet still I pour them out;
The faucet ever open sprays about
And moistens others--therein is no doubt.
As my Aquarius I would have her,
And would, could I give her what she prefers.
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