A Vague Story

Perchance it was her eyes of blue, Her cheeks that might the rose have shamed, Her figure in proportion true To all the rules by artists framed; Perhaps it was her mental worth That made her lover love her so, Perhaps her name, or wealth, or birth— I cannot tell—I do not know.

He may have had a rival, who Did fiercely gage him to a duel, And, being luckier of the two, Defeated him with triumph cruel; Then she may have proved false, and turned To welcome to her arms his foe, Left him despairing, conquered, spurned— I cannot tell—I do not know.

So oft such woes will counteract The thousand ecstacies of love, That you may fix on base of fact The story hinted at above; But all on earth so doubtful is, Man knows so little here below, That, if you ask for proof of this, I cannot tell—I do not know.