"I believe you," said the girl, "when you tell me that you love me. I believe you do, because we are young and fair, and it is springtime. I believe that you will love me tomorrow, and the day after that, and the week after that. But I wonder if you will still love me years hence, when are no longer so young, and no longer so fair, and entering into autumn."
"Sweetheart," the youth said solemnly, "I shall love you when your hair is gray, and there are lines on your face, and when you are no longer so young, for you will always be beautiful in my eyes."
"But," said the girl, "will you continue to love me when my heart has turned into dust, and my flesh lies deep within the ground slowly becoming dust? Will you embrace my bare and ugly bones?"
"Sweetheart, you speak of death. And if, indeed, you should be taken away from me while I yet live, I shall honor your grave, and love your memory, and neither the memory of you nor my love for you will die while I yet live."
"And will that memory and love endure when your own heart has turned into dust and your own bones lie beside mine?"
"Sweetheart, you speak of forever, of what other lovers promise. They promise nothing in truth; any life is too short to be the smallest speck of dust of forever. I can only promise you that I will love you while I yet live."
"A lifetime," mused the girl. "The smallest amount of forever, and yet neither too long, as forever, nor too short, as the love of those who do promise forever."
"A lifetime is all we have, sweetheart. But it is springtime, and we are too young and too fair to speak too much of death and dust; let us be young and fair and speak of love, and move in springtime while we yet may, and we shall neither regret its loss nor too eagerly seek the summer, or the autumn, or the winter."
And she put her hand in his, and together they went away.
