Grow old with me, my love,
And let our lives be record to,
The height, and breadth, and depth of love,
The pain, the joy, the work of it.
The worth of you and I.
Let others choose to chase,
The dreams of roses bought from stores,
That have no life or perfume true.
Instead I ask our hands should bleed,
From the growing of them and the thorns.
So that when old and wrinkled,
We can smile at hands that worked,
To nurture and to prosper well.
For once the petals of our youthful love,
Have fallen and turned to dust,
I choose for us a love that is fruitful,
Passing to the next generation the truth,
Of roses, not from gas stations but from gardens,
And of gardeners who know,
That all the scars and blood and pain,
Are worth the perfume even in the rain.
And in our deaths let it be said,
That we left roses growing to bless this world,
And other lives.
And not just withered memories,
Dried out, rejected in a vase.