Ten Junes to hear the Nightingale, Ten Aprils for the Cuckoo's coming; And only ten more Februarys, Love, To celebrate our wedding. Come, happier thoughts, and cry 'Good Morrow'! Though we but kiss three times a day, Three hundred days and sixty five, In every year, must come our way! Think how these kisses too will make One thousand and ninety-five a year! And all the thousands that must follow In ten years' reckoning up, my Dear! |