AS long as you never marry me, and I never marry you,
There's nothing on earth that we cannot say and nothing we cannot do–
The flames lift up from our blowing hair, the leaves flash under our feet
When once in a year or a score of years our hands and our laughters meet!

For east and west through a sorry world we pass with our joy to sell,
And they that buy of our song and jest they praise us that we do well,
But few can sell us the mirth they buy, and few be that know a song,
And for all of the praise of the kindly folk, their speeches are over-long!

But two of a trade, one always hears, might get in each other's way,
And you might be wanting to sing, God wot, when I desired to play,
(Oh, it's rather a danger with folks like us and our sparks that are flying free)
But I never, never must marry you, and you never must marry me!

Now when we take breath from songs at last, to be what the rest call dead,
They'll sigh, 'Ah, noble the songs they made, and noble the jests they said!'
And they will inscribe on our monuments regret that our day is done–
But we will be off in an excellent place, and having most excellent fun–

Oh, very proud from a golden cloud you'll stride in your crown and wings,
Till you hear my little earthly giggle behind my gold harpstrings;
And you'll toss your gilt theorbo down on the nearest star or moon,
And carry me off on a comet's back for long, wild afternoon;

And while we're lashing the comet up till it misses St. Michael's Way,
And laugh to think how the seraphs blink, and what the good saints will say,
We'll heave a little sigh of content– or a wistful one, maybe–
To know that I never can marry you, and you never can marry me!