Song

Love, Love to-day, my dear, Love is not always here; Wise maids know how soon grows sere The greenest leaf of Spring; But no man knoweth Whither it goeth When the wind bloweth So frail a thing.

Love, Love, my dear, to-day, If the ship’s in the bay, If the bird has come your way That sings on summer trees; When his song faileth And the ship saileth No voice availeth To call back these.