the days grew old, and so did we in strife
the years we wasted battling at words
within the walls of husbandry and wife
in tangled vines of grapes, beset by birds

and happy in our misery, it seemed —
we never sheared where shearing was required:
the watch upon the desk, it fairly gleamed
in telling us our bit of time’d expired

the celebrations rang outside our walls,
the laughter of the others who remained;
again to see: what stands as surely falls,
and are by wine, at last, as deeply stained

    we saw the days grow old atop our tow’rs
    and times grow dark that are, and had been, ours