We both walked slowly o'er the yellow grass,
Beneath the sunset sky:
And then he climbed the stile I did not pass,
And there we said Good-bye.
He paused one moment, I leaned on the stile,
And faced the hazy lane:
But neither of us spoke until we both
Just said Good-bye again.
And I went homeward to our quaint old farm,
And he went on his way:
And he has never crossed that field again,
From that time to this day.
I wonder if he ever gives a thought
To what he left behind:—
As I start sometimes, dreaming that I hear
A footstep in the wind.
If he had said but one regretful word,
Or I had shed a tear,
He would not go alone about the world,
Nor I sit lonely here.
Alas! our hearts were full of angry pride,
And love was choked in strife:
And so the stile, beyond the yellow grass,
Stands straight across our life.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.