The old, old story men would call our love;
One cannot think of any time so old
That some “I love you” was not gladly told
To some one listening gladly; each remove
Of the long lingering centuries does but prove
Its deathlessness;—and we to-day who hold
Each other dear as if young Love had sold
To us alone his birthright from above,—
Love’s secret ours alone,—turn back to seek
In the rich types of Roman art or Greek
Some fitting gift wherewith to fitly speak
A love that each heart to the other drew;—
An old, old story it may seem to you;
To us, each year more beautiful, more new.