You left before you had the chance to say
Happy Twelfth Birthday
And let me in my little room delay
Another twenty, anyway

For every friendship, yours is in the way
Not ghastly gray
But sitting as you were with plaits that day
With sagely wrinkle, stay

Come down, Old Maid, from moonlit hills of May
And see the play
And take the clocks about the heads, away
Of theater-goers’ sway

And grab that thief the moon, whose turns betray
That time we knew yesterday
Where every man could scoff at dream’s dismay
And every girl could pray.