Too Late

The words of love I never said to theeI whisper now,The tenderness I might have given theeI offer now,As at thy feet, who hopeless knelt to me,I, hopeless, bow.

The wintry bush in yonder hedgerow growing,A rose adorns,And near and far are snowy clusters blowing,Where late were thorns;But still my heart, nor bud nor blossom knowing,Unpitied mourns.

I see the bird that to his mate is winging—His mate so dearThe very heart within his breast is singingAs he draws near,And I, O love, too late my love am bringing—Thou dost not hear!