O, proudly I stood in the rare Sunrise,
As the dawn of your beauty brake;
But I fear'd for the storm, as I lookt at the skies,
And trembled for your sweet sake!
And O, may the evil days come not, I said.
As I yearn'd o'er my tender blossom!
Strong arm of love! shelter the dear one's head:
And I nestled you in my bosom.
May the tears never dim the love-light of her eye,—
May her Life be all Spring-weather!—
Was the prayer of my heart, ere you, Love, and I,
Were Husband and Wife together.

But the suns will shine, and the rains will fall,
On the loftiest, lowliest spot!
And there's mourning and merriment mingled for all
That inherit the human lot.
So we've suffer'd and sorrow'd and grown more strong,
Heart-to-heart, side-by-side, we have striven,
With the love that makes summer-tide all the year long,
And the heart that is its own heaven!
We clung the more close as the storm swept by,
And kept the nest warm in cold weather:
And seldom we've falter'd since you, Love, and I,
Have been Husband and Wife together!

Like the sweet wild flowers of the wilderness,
You have dwelt life to life with Nature;
And caught the wild beauty and grace of her ways,
And grown to her heavenlier stature!
In golden calm, and in quickening strife,
Hath your womanly worth unfolden:
And sunshine and show'r have enricht your life,
And ripen'd its harvest golden.
There is good in the grimmest cloud o' the sky,
There are blessings in wintry weather:
Even grief hath its glory, since you, Love, and I,
Have been husband and Wife together.

O, Life is not perfect with Love's first kiss:
Who would win the blessing must wrestle;
And the deeper the sorrow, the dearer the bliss,
That in its rich core may nestle!
Our Angels oft greet us in tearful guise,
And our saviours come in sorrow:
While the murkiest midnight that frowns from the skies,
Is at heart a radiant Morrow!
We laugh and we cry, we sing and we sigh,
And Life will have wintry weather!
So we'll hope, and love on, since you, Love, and I,
Are husband and Wife together.

My love is lessened and must soon be past.
I never promised such persistency
In its condition. No, the tropic tree
Has not a charter that its sap shall last
Into all seasons, though no Winter cast
The happy leafing. It is so with me:
My love is less, my love is less for thee.
I cease the mourning and the abject fast,
And rise and go about my works again
And, save by darting accidents, forget.
But ah! if you could understand how then
That less is heavens higher even yet
Than treble-fervent more of other men,
Even your unpassion'd eyelids might be wet.

I must feed Fancy. Show me any one
That reads or holds the astrologic lore,
And I'll pretend the credit given of yore;
And let him prove my passion was begun
In the worst hour that's measured by the sun,
With such malign conjunctions as before
No influential heaven ever wore;
That no recorded devilish thing was done
With such a seconding, nor Saturn took
Such opposition to the Lady-star
In the most murderous passage of his book;
And I'll love my distinction: Near or far
He says his science helps him not to look
At hopes so evil-heaven'd as mine are.

You see that I have come to passion's end;
This means you need not fear the storms, the cries,
That gave you vantage when you would despise:
My bankrupt heart has no more tears to spend.
Else I am well assured I should offend
With fiercer weepings of these desperate eyes
For poor love's failure than his hopeless rise.
But now I am so tired I soon shall send
Barely a sigh to thought of hopes forgone.
Is this made plain? What have I come across
That here will serve me for comparison?
The sceptic disappointment and the loss
A boy feels when the poet he pores upon
Grows less and less sweet to him, and knows no cause.