Shall I compare thee to a withered fruit?
Thou art more wrinkled and yet more beloved
Rough hands do feel like leather of a boot,
And rasp as winter makes them to be gloved;
Sometimes too quick thou triest to rise from chair,
And all thy joints are heard to creak and groan,
A helping hand is needed then, to bear
Thy weight, to let thee rise and stand alone;
But still thy eternal humour shall not die,
Nor leave me cold when jokes thou needst to make,
Nor ever cause my heart and soul to cry,
When thou in company dost ‘The Mickey’ take;
So long as we still smile and laugh as one,
So long we love, and love till life has gone.
