When, into the fountain, I pitch my dime
To sink beside yearnings silver and brown,
The great amours of some forgotten time—
Even yesterday’s love, all settled down,
I think, is it not tragically true
That metal outlives the passions of men,
Or that love often wears a tarnished hue
If one but blinks and stares at it again.
So should I consider my token lost,
Indistinguishable to my rude eye,
Amid the wet winks to which it was tossed
Of those gleaming cynics, old coins most wry?
No! Provoked, I roll back my garment’s sleeve,
Reach down, reclaim my wish, and take my leave.
Azure Bell 