The Word

My friend, my bonny friend, when we are old,

And hand in hand go tottering down the hill,

May we be rich in love's refined gold,

May love's gold coin be current with us still.

May love be sweeter for the vanished days,

And your most perfect beauty still as dear

As when your troubled singer stood at gaze

In that dear March of a most sacred year.

May what we are be all we might have been

And that potential, perfect, O my friend,

And may there still be many sheafs to glean

In our love's acre, comrade, till the end.

And may we find when ended is the page

Death but a tavern on our pilgrimage.