Your hands, my dear, adorable,
 Your lips of tenderness
-- Oh, I've loved you faithfully and well,
 Three years, or a bit less.
 It wasn't a success.

Thank God, that's done! and I'll take the road,
 Quit of my youth and you,
The Roman road to Wendover
 By Tring and Lilley Hoo,
 As a free man may do.

For youth goes over, the joys that fly,
 The tears that follow fast;
And the dirtiest things we do must lie
 Forgotten at the last;
 Even Love goes past.

What's left behind I shall not find,
 The splendour and the pain;
The splash of sun, the shouting wind,
 And the brave sting of rain,
 I may not meet again.

But the years, that take the best away,
 Give something in the end;
And a better friend than love have they,
 For none to mar or mend,
 That have themselves to friend.

I shall desire and I shall find
 The best of my desires;
The autumn road, the mellow wind
 That soothes the darkening shires.
 And laughter, and inn-fires.

White mist about the black hedgerows,
 The slumbering Midland plain,
The silence where the clover grows,
 And the dead leaves in the lane,
 Certainly, these remain.

And I shall find some girl perhaps,
 And a better one than you,
With eyes as wise, but kindlier,
 And lips as soft, but true.
 And I daresay she will do.