Stirrup Cup

Why is it always a summer's day

Or the shades of spring in the old years hay

And never a winter's night, I say.

 

Why is a man a drunken fool

To be used by drink as a Satan tool

Not seeing the depth of the drowning pool.

 

Where is the hand, and where the eyes

Brought to shame with the sad goodbyes

And all for the one who thought him wise.

 

But sorrow only belongs to those

Who give of themselves in another's clothes

To break the heart of the one that knows.

 

It's all been said and sung before

The broken heart at the open door

And never a smile for evermore.

 

Life is the everflowing stream,

Love is the hurt we thought to dream

To plague ourselves with a might-have-been.

 

David Lewis Paget