Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/Too Late

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For works with similar titles, see Too Late.
For other versions of this work, see Too Late (Coates).


THE words of love I never said to thee
  I whisper now,
The tenderness I might have given thee
  I offer now,
As at thy feet, who hopeless knelt to me,
  I, hopeless, bow.

The wintry bush in yonder hedgerow growing,
  A rose adorns,
And near and far are snowy clusters blowing,
  Where late were thorns;
But still my heart, nor bud nor blossom knowing,
  Unpitied mourns.

I see the bird that to his mate is winging—
  His mate so dear,
The very heart within his breast is singing
  As he draws near,
And I, O love, too late my love am bringing—
  Thou dost not hear!