The Four-Leaved Clover
We went a-walking on a day
I and my Irish lover,
And strange to say, upon the way,
We found a four-leaved clover.
“Good luck!” my happy swain did cry,
And pinned it on my breast;
And then —why should I amplify?—
All lovers know the rest.
They know what foolish things were said,
What foolish things were done,
On what light wings the moments sped
Until the set of sun;
And neither cared to look beyond,
Nor con the future over,
For I was young and he was fond,
And all the world was clover.
O happy days! too quickly flown,
That memory oft retraces!
We two have sadder, wiser grown,
And care has lined our faces;
Yet still I sometimes look and smile
Upon a faded leaf,
And with a tender though beguile
My hours of pain and grief.
And I have been a happy wife
These dozen years and over;
And he has led a useful life—
He raises wheat and clover.
But all the luck we found that day,
I often think with wonder,
Was in the Fate we both obey
Which tore us twain asunder.
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