O soul, be patient: thou shalt find A little matter mend all this; Some strain of music to thy mind, Some praise for skill not spent amiss.

But I can tell - let truth be told - That love will change in growing old; Though day by day is nought to see, So delicate his motions be.

When first we met we did not guess that Love would prove so hard a master.

When Death to either shall come - I pray it be first to me.

O soul, be patient: thou shalt find A little matter mend all this; Some strain of music to thy mind, Some praise for skill not spent amiss.

So sweet love seemed that April morn, when first we kissed beside the thorn, so strangely sweet, it was not strange we thought that love could never change.

Unto us all our days are love's anniversaries, each one In turn hath ripened something of our happiness.