There was an old painting in my grandparents' attic. Neither beautiful nor ugly, it simply depicted an empty room with no figures, an old living room with an armchair, library, and fireplace ... [+]
Seven years
Were but a day,
Where love grew as
life passed away.
Her lovely eyes
at me would stare,
As they peered through
her lovely hair.
Her father asked
A heavy price,
But her fair heart
Abates all vice.
So as the sun
Rolls through the days,
I labor with
Her passing gaze.
For my true love,
Is why I say
That seven years
Were but a day.
Were but a day,
Where love grew as
life passed away.
Her lovely eyes
at me would stare,
As they peered through
her lovely hair.
Her father asked
A heavy price,
But her fair heart
Abates all vice.
So as the sun
Rolls through the days,
I labor with
Her passing gaze.
For my true love,
Is why I say
That seven years
Were but a day.