Like a title the moon hovers over the meadow,
Like a title that rises from a poem of love,
And in such a fair meadow did I once stand waiting,
I patiently hoped that you'd come with me, too...

This evening I watch it in that tranquil meadow,
Observe as it sets in the wet dewy grass,
And ask myself, plunged both in thought and in wonder
How oft has that title been penned and erased.

How oft's it been written and razed do I ponder,
Much as the titles have changed in my verse.
And through my grey hair does the wind blow and skitter,
As love, now departed, is flitting elsewhere.