  AH, love, my love, as hand in hand, This glorious autumn weather, We stroll along the golden strand, And watch the ships together, We murmur vows we mean to keep, But by next year’s September, How many made beside the deep Shall We Remember? Old love is dead; new love awakes, And hearts are playthings ever; Though change may mar, ’tis change that makes; Time every link can sever; Though dull love’s fire, to glowing gold We fan the dying ember— Yet in new love, the love of old Shall We Remember? The race of life is to the strong, The pace grows fast and faster, The leader takes the field along, And brings the weak disaster. The prize is won! Yet what is fame? A rushlight in November. In twelve short months the victor’s name Shall We Remember? |
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