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

Love (menu)
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