The Old Bridge

On the old, old bridge, with its crumbling stones All covered with lichens red and gray, Two lovers were talking in sweet low tones: And we were they!

As he leaned to breathe in her willing ear The love that he vowed would never die, He called her his darling, his dove most dear: And he was I!

She covered her face from the pale moonlight With her trembling hands, but her eyes looked through, And listened and listened with long delight: And she was you!

On the old, old bridge, where the lichens rust, Two lovers are learning the same old lore; He tells his love, and she looks her trust: But we,--no more!