ENGAGED TOO LONG
Why do I grieve with summer here?
I want the flower that died last year;
I want the old drops of the dew,
And my old love, sir, – and not you.
Younger than you, nor quite so wise,
Was he who had your hair and eyes, –
Who said, "I love you" first, you see;
This you repeat, and weary me.
Why do I grieve with summer here?
I want the flower that died last year;
I want the old drops of the dew,
And my old love, sir, – and not you.
Younger than you, nor quite so wise,
Was he who had your hair and eyes, –
Who said, "I love you" first, you see;
This you repeat, and weary me.