Rereading

Here is a stanza that I find myself rereading:

Oh never weep for love that’s dead

Since love is seldom true

But changes his fashion from blue to red,

From brightest red to blue,

And love was born to an early death

And is so seldom true.

If we’re true to fashion, it doesn’t matter whether red flare bright or blue turn all. I wonder, though, if I am true to fashion or true to color?

“I can love you for your blue and red, for your seasonal change, and find each color true to me, and never weep for love that’s dead.”

“I can weep for your colors and love each one in turn.”

Oh Love was born and is so seldom, truly. But never weep for love that’s dead, only love that’s born.