J'aurai passe sur la terre,
N'ayant rien aime que l'amour.
Mortal thing not wholly clay,
Mellowing only to decay,
Speak, for airs of spring unfold
Wistful sorrows long untold.
Under a poplar turning green,
Say for age that seems so bold,
Oh, the saddest words to say,
"This might have been."
Twenty, thirty years ago--
Woe, woe, the seasons flow--
Beatings of a zephyr's plume
Might have broken down the doom.
Gossamer scruples fell between
Thee and this that might have been;
Now the clinging cobwebs grow;
Ah! the saddest loss is this,
A good maid's kiss.
Soon, full soon, they will be here,
Twisting withies for the bier;
Under a heathen yew-tree's shade
Will a wasted heart be laid--
Heart that never dared be dear.
Leave it so, to lie unblest,
Priest of love, just half confessed.