When the phone rings, do not fear;
It will be the rich man who calls.
It will not be my voice you hear.
I will never again appear
At your doorstep—winter or fall.
I have moved on to next year.
I wore cotton; he wears cashmere.
He likes all things Provencal.
No longer my voice you will hear.
At his estate in the moors of Yorkshire
You will live a life smoothly royal.
In the mornings, my voice you will not hear.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem