Faut de Mieux

Travel, trouble, music, art,
A kiss, a frock, a rhyme,—
I never said they feed my heart,
But still they pass my time.

Roundel

She’s passing fair; but so demure is she
So quiet is her gown, so smooth her hair,
That few there are who note her and agree
She’s passing fair.

Yet when was ever beauty held more rare
Than simple heart and maiden modesty?
What fostered charms with virtue could compare?

Alas, no lover ever stops to see;
The best that she is offered is the air.
Yet—if the passing mark is minus
D—
She’s passing fair.