for words too easily may be exchanged;
nor with thy eyes, for my form will alter,
blur, be not what now it is: beauty flees.
If thou wilt love, love with thy hands and feet--
touch me gently when I hurt, lift me up
when legs shall fail me. Love with thy blind heart,
that sees what's hidden by long years' decay.
When I am old, with bones weary and mind
nearly spent, when speech slurs and eyes grow dim,
when neither failing hand nor foot obeys--
love me then, and such love must sure be true.
What is love, but hard choice of constancy?
Let all else change, but ever I'll choose thee.