Too red, too red the roses were,
Too black the ivy on the tree--
Dear, at the trembling of your hair
All my despair comes back to me.
Too blue and tender was the sky,
The sea too green, the air too sweet--
I always fear--why should not I?--
The cruel fleeing of your feet.
I am weary of leaves bright and dim,
Of shining box and sombre yew,
Of the horizon's endless rim,
And of all things but you ... but you ...
