On Your 48th.

And so to you my sweet, it comes

The point at which, three quarters gone

Life trickles through our fingers

Like the sand,

In some sad, damaged hour-glass,

That runs ahead of man.

 

Months pass in days, and weeks in hours,

And how we age �" like flowers that wilt in time;

Though beauty lies, not in unblemished skin,

But deep inside;

And character and grace shine at our eyes.

 

We rarely speak of love, as once we did

With hot breath steaming at the window panes,

And where we, breathless, rode along

The rim of our content,

We now seek quiet comfort in green lanes.

 

I love you still, and more than you would know,

Love walks beside me on the golden sand,

It makes my heart beat faster

When you smile,

And leaps like lightning, when you touch my hand.

 

David Lewis Paget