Psonnets of Romance
Grow Old with Me, My Love

Grow old with me, my love. Our house is built,
and when the visitor of old age nears
to give us silver hair and golden years,
and when my sword is broken at the hilt,
and when the flower of your age will wilt,
the whispers of young love still in our ears
will help us laugh and wipe away our tears.
We still will love each other without guilt.
How happy will we be, who filled these walls,
though emptied of our chicks may be our nest,
for when we count at last our rooms and halls,
you still will have my arm, and I, your breast,
and far beyond our house, when Jesus calls,
two rooms, prepared for our eternal rest.
~ by Michael Rew / Email: witness@psonnets.org