When years have etched deep carvings on our faces
And December morns are kind to us no more
Then our joints and bones must have gone so brittle
That getting up from bed’s become a chore
Yes, we’ve seen many a days in our lifetime,
Now we finally come into the night;
And tomorrow may bring what we can yet tell,
If we should at last bid fare the other well.
Nonetheless of one thing I am certain, I swear
That my love, like the ring that on your finger wear,
Though it is weather-worn and some days dully yellowed,
T’would still and forever be made of gold.