WON.

Oh, when I would have loved you, Dear, The sun of winter hung more near; Yet not so sweet, so sweet, so sweet, The wild-rose reddening at my feet.

Your lips had learned a golden word, You sang a song that all men heard, Oh, love is fleet, the strain is long. Who stays the singer from her song?

Across my path the red leaves whirled. Dared I to kneel with all the world? How came I, then, to clasp you, Sweet, And find a woman at my feet?