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TO MY WIFE AT FIFTY.

'T is fifty years,—God bless her,—
A little more, perhaps;
When the heart is good and loving,
How fast the years elapse.
We count time, not by pulse-beats,
Or wrinkles on the brow,
But by love's broad, lighted circle,—
An ever-lingering Now.
I spoke of wrinkles—did I?
Oh, no, the loving lines
Drawn round the earth, like girdles,
Have here impressed their signs;
And if white rose leaves sprinkle
Their sheen upon her hair,
The once bright auburn tresses
A silvery beauty wear.
16

I wrote it fifty,—did I?
It might be thirty less,—
Her young heart has such power
To care for and to bless;
As sunshine near the evening
Smiles with a fairer ray,
And makes the hour of setting
The sweetest in the day.
I might have written twenty,—
But one that filled her nest
Boasts of her thirty summers,
And a rosebud on her breast;
And one, grave years creep o'er him
And graver scenes employ,—
Now, a young, doting father,
But her once fair-haired boy;
And one, her babe caressing,
With fond, maternal look;
And one, his life consuming
O'er legal brief and book;
And two, intently watching
The shadows cast before,—
I might have written twenty,
But yet it must be more.
Yes, fifty years,—God bless her,—
Perhaps a little more;
No matter what the number,
'T is all a shining store,—
As summer wakes new blessings
With every day that springs;
And every breeze comes wafting
Fresh fragrance on its wings.
17

The days, in love and blessing,
Like glancing sunbeams sped,
Since angels sang, responsive,
Around her cradle-bed;
They chanted love and promise,
Not time, or years, to be;
No matter what the number,
Perhaps 't is fifty-three.
February 8, 1866.
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