I shall grow old perhaps, but not today, not while my hopes are young, my spirit strong, my vision clear, because life has a way of smoothing out the wrinkles with a song.

I shall grow old, perhaps, but not today, not while my dreams remain a shining shield, my faith a lance, and 'neath a sky of grey, my colors wave upon the battlefield.

I shall grow old, perhaps, but not today, not while this pen can write upon a page, and memories turn Winter into May, shall this stout heart be brought to terms by age?

I shall grow old, perhaps, but not today, and scorning Time who would enlist my tears, I stand convinced there is a better way, of occupying all the coming years.

I shall grow old, perhaps, but not today, in my own style and in my own sweet time, no night so dark there does not fall a ray of
light along the pathway that I climb.

Just say of me, when my last hour slips like one bright leaf to softly rest among the others..."Life was Summer to the heart, of
one who died believing she was young."