Kiss me! Forget! We two are living now, And life is all too short for love, my dear. When one of us beneath these flowers lies low, The other will remember we kissed here.
Some one some day will come here all alone And look out on the desolated years, With bitter tears of longing for the one Who will not then be here to dry the tears!
There's a little house by an orchard side Where the Spring wears pink and white; There's a garden with pansies and London pride, And a bush of lad's delight. Through the sweet-briar hedge is the garden seen As trim as a garden can be, And the grass of the orchard is much more green Than most of the grass you see.
There used to be always a mother's smile And a father's face at the door, When one clambered over the orchard stile, So glad to be home once more. But now I never go by that way, For when I was there of late, A stranger was cutting the orchard hay, And a stranger leaned on the gate.
The wheel goes round--the wheel goes round With drip and whir and plash, It keeps all green the grassy ground, The alder, beech and ash. The ferns creep out 'mid mosses cool, Forget-me-nots are found Blue in the shadow by the pool-- And still the wheel goes round.
Round goes the wheel, round goes the wheel, The foam is white like cream, The merry waters dance and reel Along the stony stream. The little garden of the mill, It is enchanted ground, I smell its stocks and wall-flowers still, And still the wheel goes round.
The wheel goes round, the wheel goes round, And life's wheel too must go-- But all their clamour has not drowned A voice I used to know. Her window's blank. The garden's bare As her chill new-made mound, But still my heart's delight is there, And still the wheel goes round.
A red, red rose, all wet with dew, With leaves of green by red shot through, And sharp, thin thorns, and scent that brings Delicious memories of lost things, A red rose, sweet--yet sad as rue.
'Twas a red rose you gave me--you Whose gifts so sacred were, and few-- And that is why your lover sings A red, red rose.
I sing--with lute untuned, untrue, And worse than other lovers do, Because perplexing memory stings-- Because from your green grave there springs, With your spilt life-blood coloured through, A red, red rose.