To My Wife by Oscar Wilde

I can write no better than I can
and I hope that I can write
better enough for
you to remember the love
we once shared
when we were still young.

And now that we are getting
old and our hair is turning
grey let us be shielded
from the stark reality
staring us in the face
of our future death-embrace
by holding fast to the love
of winter’s past
which we have felt
for each other
when our bones melted
together.

I dare say it yes
of all the petals which have fallen
on the ground yours has been
most fair
the love which settles the air
and your hair
your mantle
which I climb to ever greater
repose.

The wind the winter
all this loveless land
whispering to me
in my ear to come hither
but I remain in the garden
of your love.