And felt the pulse beat fast, Lorena,
Though mine beat faster far than thine;
A hundred months—’twas flowery May,
When up that hilly slope we climbed
To watch the dying of the day,
And hear the distant church bells chimed.
We loved each other then, Lorena,
More than we ever cared to tell;
And what we might have been, Lorena,
Had our lovings prospered well.