Too red, too red the roses were,
Too black the ivy on the tree-- Dear, at the trembling of your hair
All my despair comes back to me. Too blue and tender was the sky,
The sea too green, the air too sweet-- I always fear--why should not I?--
The cruel fleeing of your feet. I am weary of leaves bright and dim,
Of shining box and sombre yew, Of the horizon's endless rim,
And of all things but you.. But you..