Our love was like most other loves: And Fly not Yet' upon the river; Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, A miniature, a lock of hair, The usual vows- - and then we parted. We parted months and years rolled by; We met again four summers after; Our parting was all sob and sigh, Our meeting was all mirth and laughter: For in my heart's most secret cell There had been many other lodgers; And she was not the ball-room belle, |