IT was not when I plead with her,
And on a tragic day
Clung sobbing to her skirts of rose,
That Youth went away;
O not when from the cruel glass
My face showed, lined and chill
Her eyes burnt wild beneath the mask,
Her pulse hurt me still.
But when I saw young lovers pass,
And watched them, well-content,
Nor felt my eyes grow hot with tears
To gaze where they went . . .
O then I knew my time was through,
And pleasured in the day,
At peace to know of Love and Spring
And Youth gone away.
