If I were somewhat younger
In years—say twenty-five;
And you a little older,
Then love might surely thrive,
And bind about your brow in time,
The orange flower instead of rhyme.
My years are in their autumn,
When all the trees are bare;
But yours are in their springtime,
When all is sweet and fair,
And Hope is holding out to you
Her blossoms that are ever new.
Your feet are on the roses,
And mine upon dead leaves;
Your winds have low sweet music,
And mine a sound that grieves;
The blossom of your life is sweet,
But mine — its leaves are at my feet.