What? chide my lack of tenderness?
  You're still in May, you must remember;
My waning youth has stood the stress,
  Now forty years, of chill December.
A little seamstress once, 'tis true,
  My every pulse aflame could set,
Ah! if I only could love you,
  As years ago I loved Rosette!

You're whirled along, divinely dressed,
  A type of brilliant fascination: 
Rose, radiant in her Sunday best,
  Tripped by, all joy and animation; 
To tease poor me, her glances threw
  A challenge round for all she met! 
Ah! if I only could love you
  As years ago I loved Rosette!

The mirrors on your silken wall
  Smile back a hundred happy faces; 
Rose had one glass, and that was all,
  -- I thought she'd stolen it from the Graces! --
Never a blind her window knew,
  The sunrise gilt her coverlet: 
Ah! if I only could love you,
  As years ago I loved Rosette!

The summer lightning of your wit
  Would fire the soul of many a poet; 
Poor Rose could hardly read a bit!
  -- I'm not ashamed that you should know it: 
Though thoughts might stumble, words be few,
  Love improvised an alphabet: 
Ah! if I only could love you,
  As years ago I loved Rosette!

She had not half your winning charm;
  Indeed, I think her heart was colder:
Her eyes ne'er melted, sweet and calm,
  Before the tale her loved one told her.
One grace was hers, one ever new,
  -- That youth of mine I now regret! 
Ah! if I only could love you,
  As years ago I loved Rosette!