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?