Alas, if this night is my final chance
and all our precious time is bought and sold
(a tragedy, for it is worth not gold),
I’m glad I taught you how to love to dance.
At our first dance, you were a sinking stone
into the depths of cornered, curtained rooms
and just as each spring month, the flower blooms
into the gentleman– My, how you’ve grown!
And my, how our love’s grown to be so sweet
with every springing step of young romance.
A life of constant sweeping off your feet
and taking in the light of every glance.
And if this ballad is left incomplete,
please reminisce of how we loved to dance.