Yours still, you mine; remember all the best - of our past moments, and forget the rest; And so, to where I wait, come gently on.

To think that this meaningless thing
was ever a rose,
Scentless, colorless, this !
Will it ever be thus (who knows)
Thus with our bliss.
If we wait till the close ?

Tho'we care not to wait for the end,
there comes the end 
Sooner, later, at last,
of the Spring... Or'
Which nothing can mar, nothing mend;
An end locked fast.
Bent we cannot re-bend...