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.'

Choose another poem