This late in the game
I still recall that night
We came, the kiss
On the eve of April,
Not the morn that sticks
In my memory like a thorn,
Sweet, but with a touch
Of bitterness,
Which comes with pain,
But also tenderness.
Do I cry now for what once was,
Or do I despair for loss of love,
How April spills it seeds into May,
And around us springs
The sweet bouquet,
Though this time, this late of year,
It is the song of sorrow I hear,
The rustle of leaves as I walk,
The hum of wind as I talk
The sad notes fall must bring,
And yet, I still recall
Having heard her sing,
The sense of spring lost
In a scalding summer wind,
And more distant still,
When trees grow thin,
Who dared remember talk of love
Back then, when now, other
Sadder songs must be sung,
A lament I still feel
That spring time kiss,
Is what I still feel,
And I still miss.
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