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.