For other versions of this work, see Too Late (Coates).
TOO LATE
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!