Spring fields are green again, mother O my mother,
Meadow and hedgerow spread out against the sky,
My true love has left me, I must find another
For time is a traitor and youth slips by.
Love’s a lovely, chance-met thing, daughter O my daughter,
Earning and book-learning you may compass if you try,
But swift through your fingers and fair as falling water
Love will run and sorrow come and age by-and-by.
Anthony Woodhouse, 1933