Her hair was a golden brown—
The photograph makes it black;
You may take the portrait out, if you will;
You’ll find a lock at the back.
Her eyes were a living blue,
And through their splendour rare,
You could gaze right into her soul, and see
The passions that sported there.
Why did we part? God knows!
It may be that she and I
Love still with as true and tender a love
As we swore in the days gone by.
To see a mighty rift
In a mountain, who would think
It was rent in twain by a tiny rill
That had trickled in at a chink
Needs but an angry thought,
Or a light word, lightly spoken,
And a mountain of love may be rent in twain,
And the chain of life be broken.
You may solder it up, if you will,
But the place will always show;
It’s better to do, as she and I—
Far better to let it go.