This Girl Gave Her Heart To Me, And This, And This. This One Looked At Me As If She Loved Me, And Silently Walked Away. This One I Saw Once And Loved, And Never Saw Her Again. Shall I Count Them For You Upon My Fingers? Or Like A Priest Solemnly Sliding Beads? Or Pretend They Are Roses, Pale Pink, Yellow, And White, And Arrange Them For You In A Wide Bowl To Be Set In Sunlight? See How Nicely It Sounds As I Count Them For You 'This Girl Gave Her Heart To Me And This, And This, . . . ! And Nevertheless, My Heart Breaks When I Think Of Them, When I Think Their Names, And How, Like Leaves, They Have Changed And Blown And Will Lie, At Last, Forgotten, Under The Snow.