Last year's wreath upon our brow Withereth; 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.'