Old, disenchanted and disillusioned
yet resolute in other ways
I'll not walk the past path again
the anguish and angst of days

when love was proud, resplendent and young
and spring the most mellifluous songs sang
she waited for me at the meadow with fullness of longing
while the evening church bells rang-

how tightly she held my hand
into my ***** she would swoon
we counted the stars from the dewy turf
and upon us jealously watched the tender moon-

but she went away and wrote:
'  Poor boys can't compete with the rich in matrimony
   I'm wedding this summer to your best friend John Henry
   whose dad is the owner of a bank in Tuscany'.