The Quiet Hour

My love is growing old now,
His face is lined with care,
His eyes a fading blue now,
Some gray amongst his hair.

My love is growing frail now,
His step is not so sure,
But in his heart still burns a love
As constant and as pure.

My love has passed away now,
His spirit homeward sped.
Hasten on quiet hour,
Come ? sever this silver thread.


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