Августа Вебстер (Augusta Webster)

* * *

    Tell thee truth, sweet; no.
Truth is cross and sad and cold:
     Lies are pitiful and kind,
Honey-soft as Love's own tongue:
             Let me, love, lie so.
     Lies are like a summer wind,
Wooing flower-buds to unfold
     Lies will last while men are young.
             Tell thee truth, love; no.

     Let me, sweet, lie so.
Lies are Hope's light ministers,
     Footless birds upon the wing:
Truth's a name for plodding care:
             Tell thee truth, sweet; no.
     Truth's the east wind on the Spring—
'Tis the wind, not Spring-time, errs.
     Lies will last while maids are fair.
             Let me lie, love, so.

From Disguises