THE LOST MISTRESS

All’s over, then: does truth sound bitter,
As one at first believes?

Tomorrow we meet the same then, dearest,
May I take your hand in mine?
Mere friends are we,-well, friends the merest
Keep much that I resign:

For each glance of the eye so bright and black,
Though I keep with heart’s endeavour,-
Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back,
Though it stay in my soul for ever!-

Yet I will say what mere friends say,
Or only a thought stronger:
I will hold your hand but as long as all may
Or so very little longer!