And so ’tis better we lived as we did,
The summer of love together,
And that one of us tired, and laid down to rest,
Ere the coming of wintry weather.
For the saddest of love is love grown cold,
And ’tis one of its surest phases,
So I bless my lot, though with breaking heart,
For that grave enstarred with daisies.
The beautiful, beautiful daisies.
The snowy, snowy daisies.