I GO to concert, party, ball—
⁠What profit is in these?
I sit alone against the wall
⁠And strive to look at ease.
The incense that is mine by right
⁠They burn before Her shrine;
And that's because I'm seventeen
⁠And she is forty-nine.

I cannot check my girlish blush,
⁠My colour comes and goes.
I redden to my finger-tips,
⁠And sometimes to my nose.
But she is white where white should be,
⁠And red where red should shine.
The blush that flies at seventeen
⁠Is fixed at forty-nine.

I wish I had her constant cheek:
⁠I wish that I could sing
All sorts of funny little songs,
⁠Not quite the proper thing.
I'm very gauche and very shy,
⁠Her jokes aren't in my line;
And, worst of all, I'm seventeen
⁠While She is forty-nine.

The young men come, the young men go,
⁠Each pink and white and neat,
She's older than their mothers, but