We'll go no more a-roving by the light of the moon. November glooms are barren beside the dusk of June. The summer flowers are faded, the summer thoughts are sere. We'll go no more a-roving, lest worse befall, my dear. We'll go no more a-roving by the light of the moon. The song we sang rings hollow, and heavy runs the tune. Glad ways and words remembered would shame the wretched year. We'll go no more a-roving, nor dream we did, my dear. We'll go no more a-roving by the light of the moon. If yet we walk together, we need not shun the moon. No sweet thing left to savour, no sad thing left to fear, We'll go no more a-roving, but weep at home, my dear.
O, Gather Me the Rose
O, gather me the rose, the rose, While yet in flower we find it, For summer smiles, but summer goes, And winter waits behind it! For with the dream foregone, foregone, The deed forborne for ever, The worm, regret, will canker on, And time will turn him never. So well it were to love, my love, And cheat of any laughter The death beneath us and above, The dark before and after. The myrtle and the rose, the rose, The sunshine and the swallow, The dream that comes, the wish that goes, The memories that follow!