Ye Are Naught to Me

Naught to me! So I choose to say:
We meet, old friends, about the bay;
The golden pulse grows on the shore —
Are not all things as heretofore
Now we have cast our love away?

Men throng us; thou art naught to me.
Therefore, indifferent, I can see
Within thine eyes the brightening grace
That once thou gavest face to face;
'Tis natural they welcome thee!

Naught to me, like the silver ring,
Thy mislaid, worthless gift. Last Spring,
As any careless girl, I lost
The pin, yet, by the tears it cost,
It should have been worth cherishing.

Naught, naught! and yet if thou dost pass
I grow as summer-coloured grass,
And if I wrap my chiton round,
I know thine ear hath caught the sound,
Although thou heedest not, alas!

Naught to me! Wherefore dost thou throw
On me that glittering glance, as though,
Friend, I had ever done thee wrong.
When the crowd asks me for the song,
'Atthis, I loved thee long ago'?