Vague Story, A

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.