Their hearts, their hopes, their voices gay,—
She seventeen, he twenty-three.
The skies were calm as a sleeping sea,
And the hills and streams and the mossy lea
A part of the wooing seemed to be;
’Twas violet time.
Years fled, and weak and old grew he;
His form was bent like a snow-bowed tree,
His hair was white and hers was gray,
But their souls were young as a morn in May,