Thirty years and more go by
In the blinking of an eye,

And you are still the same
As when first you took my name.

Much the same blush now as then
Glimmers through the peach-pale skin.

Time (but as with a glove)
Lightly touches you, my love.

Stand with me a minute still
While night climbs our little hill.

Below, the lights of cars
Move, and overhead the stars.

The estranging years have come,
Come and gone, and we are home.

Time joins us as a friend,
And the evening has no end.

—Donald Justice

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 13 Number 10, on page 37
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