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?