WHICH

We are both of us sad at heart, But I wonder who can say Which has the harder part, Or the bitterer grief to-day.

You grieve for a love that was lost Before it had reached its prime; I sit here and count the cost Of a love that has lived its time.

Your blossom was plucked in its May, In its dawning beauty and pride; Mine lived till the August day, And reached fruition and died.

You pressed its leaves in a book, And you weep sweet tears o'er them. Dry eyed I sit and look On a withered and broken stem.

And now that all is told, Which is the sadder, pray, To give up your dream with its gold, Or to see it fade into grey?