Lady, the light is dying in the skies,
Lady, and let us die when honor dies;
Your dear, dropped glove was like a gauntlet flung
When you and I were young,
For something more than splendor stood; and ease was not the only good,
About the woods in Ivywood, when you and I were young.
Lady, the stars are falling pale and small,
Lady, we will not live if life be all,
Forgetting those good stars in heaven hung,
When all the world was young;
For more than gold was in a ring, and love was not a little thing,
Between the trees in Ivywood, when all the world was young.
—GK Chesterton, The Flying Inn