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Edith Nesbit - The End
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ADIEU, Madame! The moon of May 
Wanes now above the orchard grey; 
The white May-blossoms fall like snow, 
As Love foretold a month ago-- 
Or was it only yesterday? 


All pleasant things must pass away; 
You would not, surely, have me stay? 
I own I shun the inference! No! 
            Adieu, Madame! 


Come, dry your eyes, for not this way 
Should end your pretty pastoral play. 
You have no heart--you told me so-- 
And I adore you, as you know; 
Smile, while I break my heart and say 
            Adieu, Madame!
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