excuse (poetry)

Blame me not, love, that I do wear
An ever-changing hue;
You are my sunshine, and I bear
My lights and shades from you.

Do not your lover, love, upbraid
To show a hasty mind;
The heaven itself is not more staid,
So you continue kind.

I am your instrument, dear love;
And if the tone be jarred,
Those strings which should in concord move
Are touched amiss and marred.

William Roscoe Caldwell, Poems (1860)