Those Dancing Days Are Gone
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Come, let me sing into your ear;
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Those dancing days are gone,
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All that silk and satin gear;
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Crouch upon a stone,
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Wrapping that foul body up
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In as foul a rag:
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I carry the sun in a golden cup.
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The moon in a silver bag.
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Curse as you may I sing it through;
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What matter if the knave
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That the most could pleasure you,
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The children that he gave,
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Are somewhere sleeping like a top
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Under a marble flag?
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I carry the sun in a golden cup.
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The moon in a silver bag.
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I thought it out this very day.
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Noon upon the clock,
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A man may put pretence away
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Who leans upon a stick,
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May sing, and sing until he drop,
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Whether to maid or hag:
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I carry the sun in a golden cup,
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The moon in a silver bag.
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Those Dancing Days Are Gone
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| Carala Bruni |
