And if you should ask for a single flower,
How could they miss just one?
Those who played in the sun with you—
Sure, they are playing still;
For Life is a spendthrift hand to woo,
Led by a reckless will.
Come, my darling, for treasured and deep
Take of my love but this;
And if once more to my arms you creep,
Who would begrudge one kiss?