To My Wife. On the Anniversary of Our Wedding
Now, Time and I, near fifty years,
Have managed kindly to agree;
Pleased with the friendship he appears,
And means that all the world shall see.
For, with soft touch about my eyes,
The frosty, kindly, jealous friend
His drawing-pencil deftly plies,
And mars the face he thinks to mend.
Nor am I called alone to wear
Old Time, “His mark,” in deepening trace;
That “twain are one,” this limner sere
Will print in lines on either face.
’Tis not, perhaps, a gallant thing
On such a morning to be told,
But Time doth yearly witness bring,
That—Bless you! we are growing old.
Together we have lived and loved,
Together passed through smiles and tears,
And life’s all-varying lessons proved
Through many constant married years.
And there is joy Time cannot reach,
A youth o’er which no power he hath,
If we cling closer, each to each,
And each to God, in hope and faith.
Anonymous.
In the summer evenings, when the wind blew low,
And the skies were radiant with the sunset glow,
Thou and I were happy, long, long years ago!
Love, the young and hopeful, hovered o’er us twain,
Filled us with sad pleasure and delicious pain,
In the summer evenings, wandering in the lane.
In the winter evenings, when the wild winds roar,
Blustering in the chimney, piping at the door,
Thou and I are happy, as in days of yore.
Love still hovers o’er us, robed in white attire,
Drawing heavenly music from an earthly lyre,
In the winter evenings, sitting by the fire.
Anonymous.