TO ROSES
Roses, I hate you! since you still can bloomContentedly, where living love is not!Can fling wan fragrance thro' this empty room,Lift languid petals shimmering 'mid the gloomWhere love is not.Roses, I hate you! that you do not dieDisconsolate, since love himself is dead.These ghosts of burnt-out kisses drifting by,Have they no power to hurt, to terrify,Since love is dead?And all these spectral words that haunt the airWith hollow sounds, grown awful, meaningless!Can you still blossom passionately fairWithin this region, frigid with despair?Where all is dead?
Roses, I hate you! since you still can bloomContentedly, where living love is not!Can fling wan fragrance thro' this empty room,Lift languid petals shimmering 'mid the gloomWhere love is not.Roses, I hate you! that you do not dieDisconsolate, since love himself is dead.These ghosts of burnt-out kisses drifting by,Have they no power to hurt, to terrify,Since love is dead?And all these spectral words that haunt the airWith hollow sounds, grown awful, meaningless!Can you still blossom passionately fairWithin this region, frigid with despair?Where all is dead?
Roses, I hate you! since you still can bloomContentedly, where living love is not!Can fling wan fragrance thro' this empty room,Lift languid petals shimmering 'mid the gloomWhere love is not.
Roses, I hate you! since you still can bloom
Contentedly, where living love is not!
Can fling wan fragrance thro' this empty room,
Lift languid petals shimmering 'mid the gloom
Where love is not.
Roses, I hate you! that you do not dieDisconsolate, since love himself is dead.These ghosts of burnt-out kisses drifting by,Have they no power to hurt, to terrify,Since love is dead?
Roses, I hate you! that you do not die
Disconsolate, since love himself is dead.
These ghosts of burnt-out kisses drifting by,
Have they no power to hurt, to terrify,
Since love is dead?
And all these spectral words that haunt the airWith hollow sounds, grown awful, meaningless!Can you still blossom passionately fairWithin this region, frigid with despair?Where all is dead?
And all these spectral words that haunt the air
With hollow sounds, grown awful, meaningless!
Can you still blossom passionately fair
Within this region, frigid with despair?
Where all is dead?
Can nothing last?No deep, intense emotion?Have all things passed,Can nothing last?"Yes," sighs the wind,"My passion for the OceanMust always last."Is nothing True?No words of protestation?Love cries anew"Is nothing True?""Yes," sobs the sea,"My endless adorationFor yonder rock is true!"Will nothing standAgainst the stress of weather?Storms sweep the land,Will nothing stand?"Yes," says the rock,"For God and I together,We two will stand."
Can nothing last?No deep, intense emotion?Have all things passed,Can nothing last?"Yes," sighs the wind,"My passion for the OceanMust always last."Is nothing True?No words of protestation?Love cries anew"Is nothing True?""Yes," sobs the sea,"My endless adorationFor yonder rock is true!"Will nothing standAgainst the stress of weather?Storms sweep the land,Will nothing stand?"Yes," says the rock,"For God and I together,We two will stand."
Can nothing last?No deep, intense emotion?Have all things passed,Can nothing last?"Yes," sighs the wind,"My passion for the OceanMust always last."
Can nothing last?
No deep, intense emotion?
Have all things passed,
Can nothing last?
"Yes," sighs the wind,
"My passion for the Ocean
Must always last."
Is nothing True?No words of protestation?Love cries anew"Is nothing True?""Yes," sobs the sea,"My endless adorationFor yonder rock is true!"
Is nothing True?
No words of protestation?
Love cries anew
"Is nothing True?"
"Yes," sobs the sea,
"My endless adoration
For yonder rock is true!"
Will nothing standAgainst the stress of weather?Storms sweep the land,Will nothing stand?"Yes," says the rock,"For God and I together,We two will stand."
Will nothing stand
Against the stress of weather?
Storms sweep the land,
Will nothing stand?
"Yes," says the rock,
"For God and I together,
We two will stand."
Oh! my valley of shade and dreams!Golden lights 'mid the distant blue,Sun that pauses to kiss the dew,Dew that trembles beneath its beams—Fain were I but a bird above,Floating, drifting on waves of air!Ah! the life of the birds is fair,For they wing to the spheres they love.And if I could but fly and singThro' the sweetness of this dear day,I would bring all the hope of May,To thy heart, that is wan for Spring.
Oh! my valley of shade and dreams!Golden lights 'mid the distant blue,Sun that pauses to kiss the dew,Dew that trembles beneath its beams—Fain were I but a bird above,Floating, drifting on waves of air!Ah! the life of the birds is fair,For they wing to the spheres they love.And if I could but fly and singThro' the sweetness of this dear day,I would bring all the hope of May,To thy heart, that is wan for Spring.
Oh! my valley of shade and dreams!Golden lights 'mid the distant blue,Sun that pauses to kiss the dew,Dew that trembles beneath its beams—
Oh! my valley of shade and dreams!
Golden lights 'mid the distant blue,
Sun that pauses to kiss the dew,
Dew that trembles beneath its beams—
Fain were I but a bird above,Floating, drifting on waves of air!Ah! the life of the birds is fair,For they wing to the spheres they love.
Fain were I but a bird above,
Floating, drifting on waves of air!
Ah! the life of the birds is fair,
For they wing to the spheres they love.
And if I could but fly and singThro' the sweetness of this dear day,I would bring all the hope of May,To thy heart, that is wan for Spring.
And if I could but fly and sing
Thro' the sweetness of this dear day,
I would bring all the hope of May,
To thy heart, that is wan for Spring.
What a lonely little corpse our love is lying,Very cold, and very still, and very drear!Yet he throbbed with passion there was no denying,And we thought his every word divinely dear!Have we both grown old, that neither sheds a tear?Have our hearts grown dry perchance with too much sighing?We are standing by the bed,At the foot and at the head,Very solemnly!——What, dearest, are you crying?
What a lonely little corpse our love is lying,Very cold, and very still, and very drear!Yet he throbbed with passion there was no denying,And we thought his every word divinely dear!Have we both grown old, that neither sheds a tear?Have our hearts grown dry perchance with too much sighing?We are standing by the bed,At the foot and at the head,Very solemnly!——What, dearest, are you crying?
What a lonely little corpse our love is lying,Very cold, and very still, and very drear!Yet he throbbed with passion there was no denying,And we thought his every word divinely dear!Have we both grown old, that neither sheds a tear?Have our hearts grown dry perchance with too much sighing?We are standing by the bed,At the foot and at the head,Very solemnly!——What, dearest, are you crying?
What a lonely little corpse our love is lying,
Very cold, and very still, and very drear!
Yet he throbbed with passion there was no denying,
And we thought his every word divinely dear!
Have we both grown old, that neither sheds a tear?
Have our hearts grown dry perchance with too much sighing?
We are standing by the bed,
At the foot and at the head,
Very solemnly!——What, dearest, are you crying?
And so we closed the book, wherein we wroteHow many words of ecstasy and pain,How oft repeated passion's deep refrain,Like ebb and flow of tide, whose echo smoteUpon the hearing of our listening sense.These pages will become the prey of years,And time, who stretches forth an envious hand,Shall make impossible to understandOur burning words, that shine with unshed tears,Ay, and we two may offer no defence!The early mornings of awakening SpringThat smote our inspiration and desireThey still shall call, yet find no answering fireWithin the eyes of two at least, who bringBut wormwood, from the once so flowering path.And limpid winter twilights when we gazedThro' frosted panes across the purpling snow,Or turned our eyes towards the cheerful glowOf logs, whose kindly voices cracked and blazedWith invitation to the sheltered hearth—They too shall come in season as before,Yet we be absent, and within the roomOur vacant places cast a little gloom;Then shall there fall a shadow on the floor,As of one passing, who is yet unseen.Perchance a pilgrim wind will pause to lookWithin this volume where our tale unfolds,And sorry at the text he there beholds,Rustle with sighs the vellum of this book,But leave no trace of where his breath has been.Perchance a rose that through the casement bent,Might cast her ardent eyes upon this lay,And being touched, hide one soft leaf awayBetween its pages, out of sentiment,Then toss her wanton fragrance to the South.Aye, many roses shall be born to graceThe garden, and the day will still rejoice,Yet never at the echo of thy voice,Nor shall a rose lift up its longing faceThat we may cool our lips upon its mouth.And side by side with petals and with sighs,With overweening tenderness and trust,Shall rest the deadly layer of choking dust:A weary skull, its sockets bare of eyes,With grinning pathos from the title pageWill bear stark record of its master Death.Sightless, yet seeing all Eternity,With silent voice that rings more truthfullyThan any words we quickened with our breathMore full of wisdom than the speech of sage.We two have loved, and have outlived the lawsOf love, e'en as these bones survive their fleshWith awful vigour gleaming strangely freshAmid the ruin of their natal cause,A peg on which the gods may hang their wit!We two have cast each other in the flameOf searing passion, that we deemed was life.Alas! those fiery billows flowing rifeUpon the sand, they have defaced love's name,And there remains no smallest trace of it.And yet we live, and walk upon the earth,Beneath the pall of dusk the dome of dawn,And all created creatures being bornMust do, and thus atone their hour of birth,A living sacrifice to what! Who knows?Poor futile things, we make our little moan,And clasp our puny hands in useless prayersTo that which neither wots of us nor cares,And in our grief behold, we stand alone,Till our complaining lips in anguish close.My eyes shall still behold the stars above,And you, how oft will count the hosts of night,But never, never can we feel delightIn them together, swearing that our loveIs more enduring than eternal things!Oh! blessed madness that possessed the heart,Oh! sweet unreason that could cloud the mind,Alas! that we have left you far behind,And growing wise must lose the dearer part,Of which not even the faintest perfume clings.What would we not surrender overjoyed,To hear once more the music that is still;We sweep the strings, but lo! no answering thrillFrom shattered harps, that eager hands destroyed,From souls whom ravishment has smitten dumb.Oh! for one hour snatched from the throbbing past,Replete with its embodied ecstasy!How little would we count Eternity,How ready be, to know that hour, our last,No matter what the penalty to come.Oh! bitterness, that we ourselves did writeThese pages with heart's blood, yet cannot feelTo-day one little tremor o'er us stealSave of regret for so much past delight!The cup is spilt of which we two partook.For this last time, oh! once beloved, stayClose here beside me, while my drying penHas still the strength to write our last Amen.'Tis written ... there is nothing left to say,And so together ... thus, we close the book.
And so we closed the book, wherein we wroteHow many words of ecstasy and pain,How oft repeated passion's deep refrain,Like ebb and flow of tide, whose echo smoteUpon the hearing of our listening sense.These pages will become the prey of years,And time, who stretches forth an envious hand,Shall make impossible to understandOur burning words, that shine with unshed tears,Ay, and we two may offer no defence!The early mornings of awakening SpringThat smote our inspiration and desireThey still shall call, yet find no answering fireWithin the eyes of two at least, who bringBut wormwood, from the once so flowering path.And limpid winter twilights when we gazedThro' frosted panes across the purpling snow,Or turned our eyes towards the cheerful glowOf logs, whose kindly voices cracked and blazedWith invitation to the sheltered hearth—They too shall come in season as before,Yet we be absent, and within the roomOur vacant places cast a little gloom;Then shall there fall a shadow on the floor,As of one passing, who is yet unseen.Perchance a pilgrim wind will pause to lookWithin this volume where our tale unfolds,And sorry at the text he there beholds,Rustle with sighs the vellum of this book,But leave no trace of where his breath has been.Perchance a rose that through the casement bent,Might cast her ardent eyes upon this lay,And being touched, hide one soft leaf awayBetween its pages, out of sentiment,Then toss her wanton fragrance to the South.Aye, many roses shall be born to graceThe garden, and the day will still rejoice,Yet never at the echo of thy voice,Nor shall a rose lift up its longing faceThat we may cool our lips upon its mouth.And side by side with petals and with sighs,With overweening tenderness and trust,Shall rest the deadly layer of choking dust:A weary skull, its sockets bare of eyes,With grinning pathos from the title pageWill bear stark record of its master Death.Sightless, yet seeing all Eternity,With silent voice that rings more truthfullyThan any words we quickened with our breathMore full of wisdom than the speech of sage.We two have loved, and have outlived the lawsOf love, e'en as these bones survive their fleshWith awful vigour gleaming strangely freshAmid the ruin of their natal cause,A peg on which the gods may hang their wit!We two have cast each other in the flameOf searing passion, that we deemed was life.Alas! those fiery billows flowing rifeUpon the sand, they have defaced love's name,And there remains no smallest trace of it.And yet we live, and walk upon the earth,Beneath the pall of dusk the dome of dawn,And all created creatures being bornMust do, and thus atone their hour of birth,A living sacrifice to what! Who knows?Poor futile things, we make our little moan,And clasp our puny hands in useless prayersTo that which neither wots of us nor cares,And in our grief behold, we stand alone,Till our complaining lips in anguish close.My eyes shall still behold the stars above,And you, how oft will count the hosts of night,But never, never can we feel delightIn them together, swearing that our loveIs more enduring than eternal things!Oh! blessed madness that possessed the heart,Oh! sweet unreason that could cloud the mind,Alas! that we have left you far behind,And growing wise must lose the dearer part,Of which not even the faintest perfume clings.What would we not surrender overjoyed,To hear once more the music that is still;We sweep the strings, but lo! no answering thrillFrom shattered harps, that eager hands destroyed,From souls whom ravishment has smitten dumb.Oh! for one hour snatched from the throbbing past,Replete with its embodied ecstasy!How little would we count Eternity,How ready be, to know that hour, our last,No matter what the penalty to come.Oh! bitterness, that we ourselves did writeThese pages with heart's blood, yet cannot feelTo-day one little tremor o'er us stealSave of regret for so much past delight!The cup is spilt of which we two partook.For this last time, oh! once beloved, stayClose here beside me, while my drying penHas still the strength to write our last Amen.'Tis written ... there is nothing left to say,And so together ... thus, we close the book.
And so we closed the book, wherein we wroteHow many words of ecstasy and pain,How oft repeated passion's deep refrain,Like ebb and flow of tide, whose echo smoteUpon the hearing of our listening sense.These pages will become the prey of years,And time, who stretches forth an envious hand,Shall make impossible to understandOur burning words, that shine with unshed tears,Ay, and we two may offer no defence!
And so we closed the book, wherein we wrote
How many words of ecstasy and pain,
How oft repeated passion's deep refrain,
Like ebb and flow of tide, whose echo smote
Upon the hearing of our listening sense.
These pages will become the prey of years,
And time, who stretches forth an envious hand,
Shall make impossible to understand
Our burning words, that shine with unshed tears,
Ay, and we two may offer no defence!
The early mornings of awakening SpringThat smote our inspiration and desireThey still shall call, yet find no answering fireWithin the eyes of two at least, who bringBut wormwood, from the once so flowering path.And limpid winter twilights when we gazedThro' frosted panes across the purpling snow,Or turned our eyes towards the cheerful glowOf logs, whose kindly voices cracked and blazedWith invitation to the sheltered hearth—
The early mornings of awakening Spring
That smote our inspiration and desire
They still shall call, yet find no answering fire
Within the eyes of two at least, who bring
But wormwood, from the once so flowering path.
And limpid winter twilights when we gazed
Thro' frosted panes across the purpling snow,
Or turned our eyes towards the cheerful glow
Of logs, whose kindly voices cracked and blazed
With invitation to the sheltered hearth—
They too shall come in season as before,Yet we be absent, and within the roomOur vacant places cast a little gloom;Then shall there fall a shadow on the floor,As of one passing, who is yet unseen.Perchance a pilgrim wind will pause to lookWithin this volume where our tale unfolds,And sorry at the text he there beholds,Rustle with sighs the vellum of this book,But leave no trace of where his breath has been.
They too shall come in season as before,
Yet we be absent, and within the room
Our vacant places cast a little gloom;
Then shall there fall a shadow on the floor,
As of one passing, who is yet unseen.
Perchance a pilgrim wind will pause to look
Within this volume where our tale unfolds,
And sorry at the text he there beholds,
Rustle with sighs the vellum of this book,
But leave no trace of where his breath has been.
Perchance a rose that through the casement bent,Might cast her ardent eyes upon this lay,And being touched, hide one soft leaf awayBetween its pages, out of sentiment,Then toss her wanton fragrance to the South.Aye, many roses shall be born to graceThe garden, and the day will still rejoice,Yet never at the echo of thy voice,Nor shall a rose lift up its longing faceThat we may cool our lips upon its mouth.
Perchance a rose that through the casement bent,
Might cast her ardent eyes upon this lay,
And being touched, hide one soft leaf away
Between its pages, out of sentiment,
Then toss her wanton fragrance to the South.
Aye, many roses shall be born to grace
The garden, and the day will still rejoice,
Yet never at the echo of thy voice,
Nor shall a rose lift up its longing face
That we may cool our lips upon its mouth.
And side by side with petals and with sighs,With overweening tenderness and trust,Shall rest the deadly layer of choking dust:A weary skull, its sockets bare of eyes,With grinning pathos from the title pageWill bear stark record of its master Death.Sightless, yet seeing all Eternity,With silent voice that rings more truthfullyThan any words we quickened with our breathMore full of wisdom than the speech of sage.
And side by side with petals and with sighs,
With overweening tenderness and trust,
Shall rest the deadly layer of choking dust:
A weary skull, its sockets bare of eyes,
With grinning pathos from the title page
Will bear stark record of its master Death.
Sightless, yet seeing all Eternity,
With silent voice that rings more truthfully
Than any words we quickened with our breath
More full of wisdom than the speech of sage.
We two have loved, and have outlived the lawsOf love, e'en as these bones survive their fleshWith awful vigour gleaming strangely freshAmid the ruin of their natal cause,A peg on which the gods may hang their wit!We two have cast each other in the flameOf searing passion, that we deemed was life.Alas! those fiery billows flowing rifeUpon the sand, they have defaced love's name,And there remains no smallest trace of it.
We two have loved, and have outlived the laws
Of love, e'en as these bones survive their flesh
With awful vigour gleaming strangely fresh
Amid the ruin of their natal cause,
A peg on which the gods may hang their wit!
We two have cast each other in the flame
Of searing passion, that we deemed was life.
Alas! those fiery billows flowing rife
Upon the sand, they have defaced love's name,
And there remains no smallest trace of it.
And yet we live, and walk upon the earth,Beneath the pall of dusk the dome of dawn,And all created creatures being bornMust do, and thus atone their hour of birth,A living sacrifice to what! Who knows?Poor futile things, we make our little moan,And clasp our puny hands in useless prayersTo that which neither wots of us nor cares,And in our grief behold, we stand alone,Till our complaining lips in anguish close.
And yet we live, and walk upon the earth,
Beneath the pall of dusk the dome of dawn,
And all created creatures being born
Must do, and thus atone their hour of birth,
A living sacrifice to what! Who knows?
Poor futile things, we make our little moan,
And clasp our puny hands in useless prayers
To that which neither wots of us nor cares,
And in our grief behold, we stand alone,
Till our complaining lips in anguish close.
My eyes shall still behold the stars above,And you, how oft will count the hosts of night,But never, never can we feel delightIn them together, swearing that our loveIs more enduring than eternal things!Oh! blessed madness that possessed the heart,Oh! sweet unreason that could cloud the mind,Alas! that we have left you far behind,And growing wise must lose the dearer part,Of which not even the faintest perfume clings.
My eyes shall still behold the stars above,
And you, how oft will count the hosts of night,
But never, never can we feel delight
In them together, swearing that our love
Is more enduring than eternal things!
Oh! blessed madness that possessed the heart,
Oh! sweet unreason that could cloud the mind,
Alas! that we have left you far behind,
And growing wise must lose the dearer part,
Of which not even the faintest perfume clings.
What would we not surrender overjoyed,To hear once more the music that is still;We sweep the strings, but lo! no answering thrillFrom shattered harps, that eager hands destroyed,From souls whom ravishment has smitten dumb.Oh! for one hour snatched from the throbbing past,Replete with its embodied ecstasy!How little would we count Eternity,How ready be, to know that hour, our last,No matter what the penalty to come.
What would we not surrender overjoyed,
To hear once more the music that is still;
We sweep the strings, but lo! no answering thrill
From shattered harps, that eager hands destroyed,
From souls whom ravishment has smitten dumb.
Oh! for one hour snatched from the throbbing past,
Replete with its embodied ecstasy!
How little would we count Eternity,
How ready be, to know that hour, our last,
No matter what the penalty to come.
Oh! bitterness, that we ourselves did writeThese pages with heart's blood, yet cannot feelTo-day one little tremor o'er us stealSave of regret for so much past delight!The cup is spilt of which we two partook.For this last time, oh! once beloved, stayClose here beside me, while my drying penHas still the strength to write our last Amen.'Tis written ... there is nothing left to say,And so together ... thus, we close the book.
Oh! bitterness, that we ourselves did write
These pages with heart's blood, yet cannot feel
To-day one little tremor o'er us steal
Save of regret for so much past delight!
The cup is spilt of which we two partook.
For this last time, oh! once beloved, stay
Close here beside me, while my drying pen
Has still the strength to write our last Amen.
'Tis written ... there is nothing left to say,
And so together ... thus, we close the book.
I made a little funeral pyre,And on it laid my youthful rhymes,Those thoughts of innocent desire,Dear foolish words of childhood times.Poor things they were, misspelt and crude,Yet void of guile or vain pretence,They seemed like children thin and nude,And unashamed through innocence.And so, the while I struck the lightThat should consume their humble bierI kissed them, and as funeral riteI mingled with the flame a tear.
I made a little funeral pyre,And on it laid my youthful rhymes,Those thoughts of innocent desire,Dear foolish words of childhood times.Poor things they were, misspelt and crude,Yet void of guile or vain pretence,They seemed like children thin and nude,And unashamed through innocence.And so, the while I struck the lightThat should consume their humble bierI kissed them, and as funeral riteI mingled with the flame a tear.
I made a little funeral pyre,And on it laid my youthful rhymes,Those thoughts of innocent desire,Dear foolish words of childhood times.
I made a little funeral pyre,
And on it laid my youthful rhymes,
Those thoughts of innocent desire,
Dear foolish words of childhood times.
Poor things they were, misspelt and crude,Yet void of guile or vain pretence,They seemed like children thin and nude,And unashamed through innocence.
Poor things they were, misspelt and crude,
Yet void of guile or vain pretence,
They seemed like children thin and nude,
And unashamed through innocence.
And so, the while I struck the lightThat should consume their humble bierI kissed them, and as funeral riteI mingled with the flame a tear.
And so, the while I struck the light
That should consume their humble bier
I kissed them, and as funeral rite
I mingled with the flame a tear.
Over the hills to Tennaley Town,When the leaves are red, and the leaves are brown,Under a limpid sky!Oh! it's good to be young to-day,Strong, and young, on this lonely way,Happy my thoughts and I!Far below where the mists are blueRuns the river, and damp with dewGlimmers the golden corn,Crickets sing in the wayside grass,Beetles drone, as I pause and passOn thro' the Autumn morn."Winter's coming," the winds have said,Shall I weep for a time that's dead?Foolish to weep, not I!Over the hills near Tennaley Town,When the leaves are red, and the leaves are brown,I'm here, alive, walking swiftly down,Then what matters the by and bye!
Over the hills to Tennaley Town,When the leaves are red, and the leaves are brown,Under a limpid sky!Oh! it's good to be young to-day,Strong, and young, on this lonely way,Happy my thoughts and I!Far below where the mists are blueRuns the river, and damp with dewGlimmers the golden corn,Crickets sing in the wayside grass,Beetles drone, as I pause and passOn thro' the Autumn morn."Winter's coming," the winds have said,Shall I weep for a time that's dead?Foolish to weep, not I!Over the hills near Tennaley Town,When the leaves are red, and the leaves are brown,I'm here, alive, walking swiftly down,Then what matters the by and bye!
Over the hills to Tennaley Town,When the leaves are red, and the leaves are brown,Under a limpid sky!Oh! it's good to be young to-day,Strong, and young, on this lonely way,Happy my thoughts and I!
Over the hills to Tennaley Town,
When the leaves are red, and the leaves are brown,
Under a limpid sky!
Oh! it's good to be young to-day,
Strong, and young, on this lonely way,
Happy my thoughts and I!
Far below where the mists are blueRuns the river, and damp with dewGlimmers the golden corn,Crickets sing in the wayside grass,Beetles drone, as I pause and passOn thro' the Autumn morn.
Far below where the mists are blue
Runs the river, and damp with dew
Glimmers the golden corn,
Crickets sing in the wayside grass,
Beetles drone, as I pause and pass
On thro' the Autumn morn.
"Winter's coming," the winds have said,Shall I weep for a time that's dead?Foolish to weep, not I!Over the hills near Tennaley Town,When the leaves are red, and the leaves are brown,I'm here, alive, walking swiftly down,Then what matters the by and bye!
"Winter's coming," the winds have said,
Shall I weep for a time that's dead?
Foolish to weep, not I!
Over the hills near Tennaley Town,
When the leaves are red, and the leaves are brown,
I'm here, alive, walking swiftly down,
Then what matters the by and bye!
What so dead as my love for you,What so terribly dead!Lay it low 'neath the grass and dew,Bury it deep in an earthy bed,Then put a tombstone over its headWith the words "And this love was true."
What so dead as my love for you,What so terribly dead!Lay it low 'neath the grass and dew,Bury it deep in an earthy bed,Then put a tombstone over its headWith the words "And this love was true."
What so dead as my love for you,What so terribly dead!Lay it low 'neath the grass and dew,Bury it deep in an earthy bed,Then put a tombstone over its headWith the words "And this love was true."
What so dead as my love for you,
What so terribly dead!
Lay it low 'neath the grass and dew,
Bury it deep in an earthy bed,
Then put a tombstone over its head
With the words "And this love was true."