Realisation is rare, so rare
and arrives too late
the harvest is over
nothing is left to celebrate

the face of youth was once
so refulgent-  lips were passionate-red
hearts were in love-waiting
many lonely tears had been shed

the flowers of spring have withered
their petals are strewn on the silent meadow-bed
love-serenades are no longer repeated
dreams and hopes once cherished are now dead

romance that has been sadly lost
in reminiscences has turned to hate
beauty has hidden away and longs
for oblivion-- closed is its love-gate.