The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang Edited by Mrs. Lang |
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 | The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang |  |
82
Good-bye
Kiss me, and say good-bye;
Good-bye—there is no word to say but this,
Nor any lips left for my lips to kiss,
Nor any tears to shed, when these tears dry;
Kiss me, and say good-bye.
Good-bye—there is no word to say but this,
Nor any lips left for my lips to kiss,
Nor any tears to shed, when these tears dry;
Kiss me, and say good-bye.
Farewell! be glad—forget;
There is no need to say ‘forget’, I know,
For youth is youth, and time will have it so;
And though your lips are pale, and your eyes wet,
Farewell, you must forget.
There is no need to say ‘forget’, I know,
For youth is youth, and time will have it so;
And though your lips are pale, and your eyes wet,
Farewell, you must forget.
You shall bring home your sheaves,
Many, and heavy, and with blossoms twined
Of memories that go not out of mind;
Let this one sheaf be twined with poppy leaves
When you bring home your sheaves.
Many, and heavy, and with blossoms twined
Of memories that go not out of mind;
Let this one sheaf be twined with poppy leaves
When you bring home your sheaves.
83
In garnered loves of thine—
The ripe good fruit of many hearts and years—
Somewhere let this lie, gray and salt with tears;
It grew too near the sea wind and the brine
Of life, this love of mine.
The ripe good fruit of many hearts and years—
Somewhere let this lie, gray and salt with tears;
It grew too near the sea wind and the brine
Of life, this love of mine.
This sheaf was spoiled in spring,
And over-long was green, and early sere,
And never gathered gold in the late year
From autumn suns, and moons of harvesting,
But failed in frosts of spring.
And over-long was green, and early sere,
And never gathered gold in the late year
From autumn suns, and moons of harvesting,
But failed in frosts of spring.
Yet was it thine, my sweet,
This love, though weak as young corn witherèd
Whereof no man may gather and make bread;
Thine, though it never knew the summer heat;
Forget not quite, my sweet.
This love, though weak as young corn witherèd
Whereof no man may gather and make bread;
Thine, though it never knew the summer heat;
Forget not quite, my sweet.
| The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang | |