Three Songs ; words by Arthur O'Shaughnessy

If she but knew that I am weeping
  Still for her sake,
That love and sorrow grow with keeping
  Till they must break,
My heart that breaking will adore her,
  Be hers and die;
If she might hear me once implore her,
  Would she not sigh?
 
If she but knew that it would save me
  Her voice to hear,
Saying she pitied me, forgave me,
  Must she forbear?
If she were told that I was dying,
  Would she be dumb?
Could she content herself with sighing?
  Would she not come?

I should not follow a dream in vain,
  Loving, forsaking, loving again,
If this one loved a little more,
  If that one sorrowed a little longer ;
If red lips holier kisses bore,
  If passionate hearts were stronger.

I should not leave brown hair for gold,
  The warm and fair for the fair and cold,
If one I loved ne'er loved again ;
  As years go by and loves grow fewer,
I should not follow a dream in vain,
  If a beautiful woman were truer.

When the rose came, I loved the rose, 
  And thought of none beside, 
Forgetting all the other flowers. 
  And all the others died ; 
And morn, and noon, and sun, and showers, 
  And all things loved the rose. 
Who only half returned my love, 
  Blooming alike for those. 

I was the rival of a score 
  Of loves on gaudy wing. 
The nightingale I would implore 
  For pity not to sing ; 
Each called her his, still I was glad 
  To wait or take my part ; 
I loved the rose -- who might have had 
  The fairest lily's heart.