To My Wife

	And does the heart grow old? You know
	In the indiscriminate green
	Of summer or in earliest snow
	A landscape is another scene,
	
	Inchoate and anonymous,
	And every rock and bush and drift
	As our affections alter us
	Will alter with the season's shift.
	
	So love by love we come at last,
	As through the exclusions of a rhyme,
	Or the exactions of a past,
	To the simplicity of time,
	
	The antiquity of grace, where yet
	We live in terror and delight
	With love as quiet as regret
	And love like anger in the night.