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the years creep slowly by, lorena,
the snow is on the grass again;
the sun's low down the sky, lorena,
the frost gleams where the flowers have been.
but my heart beats on as warmly now,
as when the summer days were nigh;
the sun can never dip so low,
or down affections cloudless sky.
a hundred months have passed, lorena,
since last i held that hand in mine,
and felt the pulse beat fast, lorena,
though mine beat faster far than thine.
a hundred months, 'twas flowery may,
when up the hilly slope we climbed,
to watch the dying of the day,
and hear the distant church bells chime.
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we loved each other then, lorena,
more than we ever dared to tell;
and what we might have been, lorena,
had but our lovings prospered well.
but then, 'tis past, the years are gone,
i'll not call up their shadowy forms;
i'll say to them, "lost years, sleep on!
sleep on! nor heed life's pelting storms."
the story of that past, lorena,
alas! i care not to repeat,
the hopes that could not last, lorena,
they lived, but only lived to cheat.
i would not cause e'en one regret
to rankle in your bosom now;
for "if we try, we may forget,"
were words of thine long years ago.
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yes, these were words of thine, lorena,
they burn within my memory yet;
they touched some tender chords, lorena,
which thrill and tremble with regret.
'twas not thy woman's heart that spoke;
thy heart was always true to me:
a duty, stern and pressing, broke
the tie which linked my soul with thee.
it matters little now, lorena,
the past is in the eternal past;
our heads will soon lie low, lorena,
life's tide is ebbing out so fast.
there is a future! o, thank god!
of life this is so small a part!
'tis dust to dust beneath the sod;
but there, up there, 'tis heart to heart.