Seven falls have come and gone.
Life has pressed us paper thin.
The seasons pass and love rusts;
Indifference comes creeping in.
No touches now, no parting glances,
No cards or sentiments on flowers;
No tender private smiles
To ease the pain of the passing hours.
The hours! Oh, the hours
Hasten away and my body grows cold,
While I wonder if this is true
Of a love that seems to grow old.
Grows old with my ageing face,
With those young eyes now morose
Over a lack of interest
In a love in captured repose.