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?
Yesterdays. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
London: Gay & Hancock, 1916.
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