A Crown of Bluer Metal

Beat me a crown of bluer metal;

Fret it with stones of a foreign style:

The heart grows weary after a little

Of what it loved for a little while.

Weave me a robe of richer fibre;

Pattern its web with a rare device:

Give away to the child of a neighbour

This gold gown I was glad in twice.

But buy me a singer to sing one song —

Song about nothing — song about sheep —

Over and over, all day long;

Patch me again my thread-bare sleep.