To a Poet’s Wife

Thou art indeed a happy one,
And hast a charmed life,
A noble triumph thou hast won,
A bright-eyed Poet’s wife.

His fancy plucks all glittering gems
From mountain caves and sea,
To form that best of diadems,
He proudly gives to thee.

That realm that doth thy power obey,
Is richer far than these,
More sweet its nights, more bright its day,
More bland its wandering breeze.

And gentle creatures move and kiss
The sceptre in thy hand,
And gather garlands, wreaths of bliss,
Amid thy fairy land.

The Angels’ song comes down at times,
And flows into his song,
Like the triumphal, silver chimes,
That steal the heavens along.