Last year's wreath upon our brow
What good thing is left us now
After Death?
That sad Death we all must die,
Once at least—
Pass from Love, aye utterly,
That we gave so much to buy
Leave it—since in verity
It hath ceased.

Last year's words are wearying
Touch us not.
Last year's songs are ill to sing
Half forgot,
Half remembered—profitless
Let them be.
Twelve short months since, who could guess
That we openly confess—
'We two, in our bitterness,
Would be free.'