No fleeting spark that vanishes at dawn,
But like the oak that stands against the gale,
Our roots run deep where lesser loves might fail,
A verdant shade upon the velvet lawn.
We built a fortress not of stone, but trust,
A sanctuary calm where souls entwine;
Though roses fade and stars may cease to shine,
Our hearth remains while iron turns to dust.
As vintage wine matures within the cask,
Growing more sweet with every passing year,
So grows the bond that holds us ever near,
A labor born of love, a sacred task.
And when the silver crowns our weary heads,
And winter’s chill descends upon the land,
Still I shall hold within my palm thy hand,
Until the sun fades from the western beds.
Drawing from the Romantic tradition of Keats and Byron, this piece illustrates that the highest form of romance is not found in the thrill of the new, but in the unshakeable comfort of the known and the steadfast devotion of years spent side by side.
