• Star, that gives a gracious dole,
    What am I to choose?
    Oh, will it be a shriven soul,
    Or little buckled shoes?

    Shall I wish a wedding-ring,
    Bright and thin and round,
    Or plead you send me covering-
    A newly spaded mound?

    Gentle beam, shall I implore
    Gold, or sailing-ships,
    Or beg I hate forevermore
    A pair of lying lips?

    Swing you low or high away,
    Burn you hot or dim;
    My only wish I dare not say-
    Lest you should grant me him.
    Quote: