Since that it may not be,
The thing my soul desires,
And that Love's tenderer fires
Are doomed to loss and Time's sterility,
Ours be it this one day
Flowers at Love's feet to lay,
For Love is master still, or be we bond or free.

We may not quite be blest.
Time's treasure is too great,
And ours too weak a fate,
And Joy burns low, a sun--flame in the West.
Night comes, the while we stand
Forlornly hand in hand,
And then the tears begin, the dreams that have no rest.

Yet, since it may not be,
And Love can not be wise,
And in each other's eyes
We still must seek Time's lost felicity,
Ours be it this last day
Flowers on Love's grave to lay,
For Love is master still, or be we bond or free.