À Quoi Bon Dire

Seventeen years ago you said Something that sounded like Good-bye; And everybody thinks that you are dead, But I.

So I, as I grow stiff and cold To this and that say Good-bye too; And everybody sees that I am old But you.

And one fine morning in a sunny lane Some boy and girl will meet and kiss and swear That nobody can love their way again While over there You will have smiled, I shall have tossed your hair.