Like Longfellow’s ugly Standish I have sent

So many emissaries – bidding them to say

Such things as words, sighs, gifts O never can convey.

Tribunes and proxies, I must seize on these,

For certain things by lovers are not borne –

The first denial – and the second scorn.

And so I ask the winds, the things you touch,

To tell my secret – and to bring report

How you respond. But fondly as I sought

For tidings of my heralds, there are none.

The treacherous Standish pattern holds the day –

They see you once, and, seeing you, they stay.