Too Late
Too late, too late
When the last full blossoms
Of spring
Have fallen to the ripe earth
Too late, too late
When the river has run dry
And every song of the sparrow
Has been sung
Too late, too late
When the hue of sunset
Has faded
Then, in that fading hour,
There will be forgetting
And regret
Then a cry from the mountain
Will be heard
But the echo will not return
There will be no return
To the days of splendor
Copyright © Bill Yates | Year Posted 2019
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