The sun itself, which makes times, as they pass
Is elder by a year now than then it was,
When thou and I first one another saw;
All other things to their destruction draw,
Only our love hath no decay;
This, no tomorrow hath, nor yesterday.
Running, it never runs from us away,
But truly keeps his first, last, everlasting day.
John Donne (1572-1631), The Anniversary.
0 Comments