We might have loved each other after all, Have lived and learned together! Yet I doubt it; You asked, I think, too great a sacrifice, Or else, perhaps, I rate myself too dear. Whichever way the difference lies between us, Would common cares have helped to lessen it, A common interest, and a common lot? Who knows indeed? We choose our path, and then Stand looking back and sighing at our choice, And say: “Perhaps the other road had led To fruitful valleys dozing in the sun.” Perhaps--perhaps--but all things are perhaps, And either way there lies a doubt, you know. We’ve but one life to live, and fifty ways To live it in, and little time to choose The one in fifty that will suit us best, And so the end is, that we part, and say: “We might have loved each other after all!” _1878._ [Illustration] [Illustration] Lines on Chaucer. No human pomp suggests his name, No human pride builds up his fame, But croft and meadow every where His presence and his charm declare. He was an echo of the woods, A breath of vernal solitudes, An annalist of brooks and birds, Interpreter of sylvan words; He worshipt nature where he trod And still, through nature, worshipt God; And spotless as the flower he praises His name still blossoms with the daisies. [Illustration] What We Shall Say Fifty Years Hence, OF OUR FANCY-DRESS QUADRILLE. (Danced at Swanhurst, August 8th, 1878.) Do you remember, long ago, Our Fancy-dress Quadrille? Though many a year is past since then It makes me joyous still, To think what fun we used to have When we were young and gay And danced upon the Swanhurst lawn, That happy Summer day. As Shepherd and as Shepherdess We trod the graceful round, In pinks and blues, with buckled shoes, And crooks with ribands bound; And as with joyous step we danced We gaily sang in time The foolish words and merry tune Of some old Nursery rhyme. But often through the singing broke A burst of laughter gay, So young were we, so glad and free, That happy Summer day! And hand in hand would linger long, As through the dance we moved, For some of us were lovers then, And some of us were loved. Ah, many a year is past since then, And fled the merry throng, And yet I hear, at times quite clear, The echo of our song; And though our days are Wintry now I well remember still The happy Summer day we danced Our Fancy-dress Quadrille! _1878._ [Illustration] [Illustration] Nothing More. ’Twas the old, old story told again, The story we all have heard; A glimpse of brightness, parting and pain-- You know it word for word.