And mars the face he thinks to mend.
Nor am I called alone to wear
Old Time, “His mark,” in deepening trace;
That “twain are one,” this limner sere
Will print in lines on either face.
’Tis not, perhaps, a gallant thing
On such a morning to be told,
But Time doth yearly witness bring,
That—Bless you! we are growing old.
Together we have lived and loved,