I will tell you when they met:In the limpid days of Spring;Elder boughs were budding yet,Oaken boughs looked wintry still,But primrose and veined violetIn the mossful turf were set,While meeting birds made haste to singAnd build with right good will.
I will tell you when they parted:When plenteous Autumn sheaves were brown,Then they parted heavy-hearted;The full rejoicing sun looked downAs grand as in the days before;Only they had lost a crown;Only to them those days of yoreCould come back nevermore.
When shall they meet? I cannot tell,Indeed, when they shall meet again,Except some day in Paradise:For this they wait, one waits in pain.Beyond the sea of death love liesFor ever, yesterday, to-day;Angels shall ask them, 'Is it well?'And they shall answer, 'Yea.'