She has left me for a while—
Not in anger or in passion—
Left me, saying with a smile,
“Love is out of fashion;
'Tis a garment only meant
For the minstrel and romancer”—
And I watched her as she went,
Struggling, speechless for an answer.

Now I wander to and fro,
Up and down the ruined orchard,
And I rave and scarcely know
Why I am so tortured.
Does she mean to tear my heart
All afresh with this new flaying,
Or, I wonder, is it part
Of a game she tires in playing.