As you murmured and smiled for an hour;
I saw you twice at the stile.
A hand like a white-wood blossom
You lifted and waved, and passed,
With head hung down to the bosom,
And pale, as it seemed, to the last.
And the best and the worst of this is,
That neither is most to blame,
If you’ve forgotten my kisses,
And I’ve forgotten your name.