Memories of May

When the sun starts to pale in September, I remember the things we did in May. Ere our flame became a dying ember, Hopes were high and our hearts were young and gay. We didn't stop to think as time flew past That love cannot survive on love alone, But by the summer's end we knew at last That passion's heat had cooled and love had gone. I often wonder now where she may be, That girl I knew and loved so long ago. And if now and again she thinks of me, I hope somehow her heart will let her know In the cold, lonely days of December, I'll be warmed by my memories of May.