“My sweet,” you sang, and, “Sweet,” I sang,
    And sweet we sang together,
Glad to be young as the world was young,
    Two colts too strong for a tether.

Shall ever a spring be like that spring,
    Or apple blossoms as white;
Or ever clover smell like the clover
    We lay upon that night?

Shall ever your hand lie in my hand,
    Pulsing to it, I wonder;
Or have the gods, being jealous gods,
    Envied us our thunder?