I wish they’d play croquet again,
My dear lover and his friends,
Upon the grass so green in col’r,
Where he’d still be my dear lover.
Of all the days and hours too,
I pine for him and what he’d do;
To think my heart would skip a beat,
When’er I heard sound of his feet!
I had so hoped my love would be,
Engrossed in moi, as I was he.
But the fire has died to flame,
And things may ne'er be the same.
So for now, each tedious ho’r
I sit and wait so for that fire.
I sit and wait for times again,
When I can too call him a friend,
And days where I might gladly be
The girl with pow’r to set him free.
And play upon, not grass so green,
But feelings that give e’erlasting sheen;
His heart I might encapture still-
Perhaps one more untimely thrill.
Oh, will I play croquet again?
In times where man could be my friend.