How pleasant it is to sit and dream
While evening clouds paint the western sky . . .
Before I could tell my harebrained scheme
To the setting sun, it waved good-bye

If I may I'll share my plan with you:
Since all hopes and dreams of love lie spent,
Now and then I'll write a poem or two
Relating memoirs that I'll invent

What jealous passions might I provoke
From the wretched souls that only know
Loneliness, unaware of the joke
That I'm playing to hide my own woe

Wait until they read of my wild nights,
Strutting with a suitor on each arm,
Painting the town red.  These vile delights
Will bring gasps and be cause for alarm

Then there'll be the poems of quiet hours
When love's very essence lays its hand
On my heart like dew upon the flowers.
How the flames of envy will be fanned!

But here I sit, while the midnight stroke
Brings tears of loneliness to my eyes;
What fantasies my poems may evoke!
(But you and I know they're only lies)