The Accomplices

Conrad Aiken

(1889-1932)

A love I love whose lips I love

But conscience she has none

Nor can I rest upon her breast

For faith’s to her unknown

Light-hearted to my bed she comes

But she is early gone.

This lady in the sunlight is

As magic as the sun

And in my arms and all night long

She seems and is my own

Yet but a Monday love is she

And Tuesday she is gone.

Rare as charity is her hand

That rests my heart upon

But charity to so many kind

Stays for a day with none

A spendthrift love she spends her love

And all will soon be gone.

Yet though my trust has been betrayed

Reproaches have I none

No heart but is of treason made

Or has not mischief done

And we could be together false

If she would but stay on.

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