See the faded fabric, there?
The stitching pulled, the tattered thread?
The fabric of my heart is gone;
(I wore it Loud and Ostentate!)

Now, forlorn, I am without
Its quilted beat, that woven flag,
That banner of my hopeful youth;
(my sleeve is raw;  the wound runs deep.)

Shall I ever find a loom
To weave another, just as loud?
Or suffer hence a make-do patch?
(some homespun thing, with burlap beat?)

Should I fashion on my own
A stronger, more defensive badge,
Breaking needles as I sew?
(A heart of Tin that does not bleed!)

Wait!  What's this?  O! Say it's true!
I grieve my loss too soon, it seems,
Upon this flight of errant heart.
(I wake from imprisoned dream!)

There's a seamstress caught my eye,
With linen pure, and gilded string.
She adds to this new heart some wings;
(my heart is prone to flight, it seems.)