The Chilterns

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.