IT was not when I plead with her, And on a tragic day Clung sobbing to her skirts of rose, That Youth went away; O not when from the cruel glass My face showed, lined and chill– Her eyes burnt wild beneath the mask, Her pulse hurt me still. But when I saw young lovers pass, And watched them, well-content, Nor felt my eyes grow hot with tears To gaze where they went . . . O then I knew my time was through, And pleasured in the day, At peace to know of Love and Spring And Youth gone away.
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