Three candles had her cake,
Which now are burnt away;
We wreathed it for her sake
With currant-leaves and bay
And the last graces
Of Michaelmas Daisies
Pluckt on a misty day.
Curled (as she cut her cake)
In mine her fingers lay;
Purple the petals brake,
Bruised was the scented bay;
Like a yellow moth
On the white white cloth
One currant-leaf flew away.
Three candles lit her state;
Dimmed is their golden reign—
Leaves on an empty plate,
Petals and tallow-stain;
Nor will she
Nor the candles three
Ever be three again.