Summer’s warmth is long forgotten,
In the midst of winter’s cold,
And fleeing youth is a distant shadow,
As so soon we grow old.

But like a band that keeps on playing,
So she’d have her maiden dance,
Waltzing eyes in gentle crying,
May give poets another chance.
If their words are truly bold,
They will be eternally sung,
And if their hearts are truly young,
They will never grow old.

Image: Abbey-in-lift

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