Golden and folden are the cards
That maketh and shapeth shapeless fates,
And harply play our mortal hearts
To turn hate to love and love to hate.
Silver is spun the silence of sooths,
Forsooth that it glimmers so rare,
And so parts from our divinations of youth
That it’s not truth ‘til there’s white in our hair.
Thus call it not an auguration
When I my reason so unrope,
For I oft drink from that libation
We mortal men doth calleth hope.
This chalice I raise not to my own wealth
Nor for sovereign powers unto me bestow
Nor the kiss of Fortune herself,
But that there is one truth you should know;
Though Silver sooths I cannot hear,
And Golden cards I cannot see,
So is the hope I cherish dear:
My future to be found in thee.