A New-Year’s Burden

ALONG the grass sweet airs are blown

Our way this day in Spring.

Of all the songs that we have known

Now which one shall we sing?

Not that, my love, ah no!—

Not this, my love? why, so!—

Yet both were ours, but hours will come and go.

The grove is all a pale frail mist,

The new year sucks the sun.

Of all the kisses that we kissed

Now which shall be the one?

Not that my love, ah no!—

Not this, my love?—heigh-ho

For all the sweets that all the winds can blow!

The branches cross above our eyes,

The skies are in a net:

And what's the thing beneath the skies

We two would most forget?

Not birth, my love, no, no,—

Not death, my love, no, no,—

The love once ours, but ours long hours ago.