The sigh that heaves the grasses - whence thou wilt never rise is of the air that passes and knows not if it sighs --- The diamond tears adoring thy low mound on the lea, those are the tears of morning, that weeps, but not for thee...

The ladies bow, and partners set,
and turn around and pirouette and
trip the Lancers.

But no one seeks my ample chair,
or asks me with persuasive air
to join the dancers.

They greet me, as I sit alone
upon my solitary throne,
and pass politely.

Yet mine could keep the measured beat,
as surely as the youngest feet,
and tread as lightly.

No other maiden had my skill
in our old homestead on the hill -
That merry May- time.

When you closed the flagging ball,
and danced with me before them all,
until the day - time.

Again I aught, and step alone,
and curtsey low as on my own
his strong hand closes.

But you now seeks staid delight,
his son there, brought my nice to - night
these early roses.

Time orders well, we have our Spring,
Our songs, and may-flower gathering,
our love and laughter.

and children chatter all the while,
and leap the brook and climb the stile
and follow after.

And yet - the step of your son,
is not as light as was the one
that went before it.

And that old lace, I think, falls down
less softly on her's, her's, her's gown
than when I wore it...