À Quoi Bon Dire

Seventeen years ago you said
    Something that sounded like Good-bye;
    And everybody thinks that you are dead,
                        But I.

     So I, as I grow stiff and cold
To this and that say Good-bye too;
    And everybody sees that I am old
                        But you.

     And one fine morning in a sunny lane
Some boy and girl will meet and kiss and swear 
    That nobody can love their way again
                        While over there
You will have smiled, I shall have tossed your hair.