My own, my sweet, my darling wife,
	'Tis true that years have made
A change in thee - that 'cross thy brow
	Some lines old Time hath laid;
And in thy once bright glist'ning hair
	That cluster'd round thy head,
Some little locks just here and there,
	Now shine like silv'ry thread;
But, dearest, I love still the same,
	As when thy brow was fair,
When free from thought of sorrow's name,
	Thou knewest naught of care,
And thou art still, though older grown,
	My own, my dearest love,l
And will remain, ever mine own,
	Till call'd from earth, above.

Liverpool, 17th Dhulheggia, 1324,
1st February, 1907