Vague Story, A

Perchance it was her eyes of blue,         Her cheeks that might the rose have shamed,     Her figure in proportion true         To all the rules by artists framed;     Perhaps it was her mental worth         That made her lover love her so,     Perhaps her name, or wealth, or birth         I cannot tell, I do not know.     He may have had a rival, who         Did fiercely gage him to a duel,     And, being luckier of the two,         Defeated him with triumph cruel;     Then she may have proved false, and turned         To welcome to her arms his foe,     Left him despairing, conquered, spurned         I cannot tell, I do not know.     So oft such woes will counteract         The thousand ecstacies of love,     That you may fix on base of fact         The story hinted at above;     But all on earth so doubtful is,         Man knows so little here below,     That, if you ask for proof of this,         I cannot tell, I do not know.