This girl gave her heart to me, <br />And this, and this. <br />This one looked at me as if she loved me, <br />And silently walked away. <br />This one I saw once and loved, and never saw her again. <br />Shall I count them for you upon my fingers? <br />Or like a priest solemnly sliding beads? <br />Or pretend they are roses, pale pink, yellow, and white, <br />And arrange them for you in a wide bowl <br />To be set in sunlight? <br />See how nicely it sounds as I count them for you — <br />‘This girl gave her heart to me <br />And this, and this, . . . ! <br />And nevertheless, my heart breaks when I think of them, <br />When I think their names, <br />And how, like leaves, they have changed and blown <br />And will lie, at last, forgotten, <br />Under the snow.<br /><br />Conrad Potter Aiken<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/improvisations-light-and-snow-09/
