Do not go, my love--oh, do not leave so soon
Familiar halls and rooms that know your touch.
I want another April, May and June,
I want--oh still the wanting is so much.
What--forty years gone by? Why need we more
When those before us fill us both with dread?
Oft times I see you staring out the door
As though you're longing for the path ahead,
We go then, hand in hand, into the deep,
Each day a visit to the blank machines.
Those promises we made we mean to keep,
By these mechanicals or other means.
And if alone you chance that endless track,
I'll bring you home, without once looking back.