To ——

You have destroyed my early loves.
The grasses wet with dew.
And hills upon whose gentle breast
My careless boyhood grew.
I have no happiness at all
Except to be with you.

I have forgotten all the words
And laughter of my friends,
The little inns that are like homes.
The road that dips and bends;
I hear them like a far-off song
That fails at last and ends.

It's little use for us to grieve
For things that cannot be;
You can't give back the happiness
You took away from me.
Give me yourself, for night and day
It's only you I see.

Oxford, 1913