 | Forest buds, from the woods of Maine |  |
129
MY WIFE AND CHILD.
I dream;—my gentle wife is near,—
A girlish figure, small and slight;
Say, shall I sketch her picture, ere
She passes out of sight?
Hers is no beauty strange and rare,
Fashioned by rapturous poet's rule;
All hearts might deem her very fair,
And not one, beautiful.
Not beautiful to painters' eyes,
Because her noblest beauty lies
Not in her features' faultless grace,
But the sweet meaning of her face.
A girlish figure, small and slight;
Say, shall I sketch her picture, ere
She passes out of sight?
Hers is no beauty strange and rare,
Fashioned by rapturous poet's rule;
All hearts might deem her very fair,
And not one, beautiful.
Not beautiful to painters' eyes,
Because her noblest beauty lies
Not in her features' faultless grace,
But the sweet meaning of her face.
A look of patient gentleness
On lip and brow serenely lies;
And oh, a world of tenderness
Shines softly in her sunny eyes!
Her lips—to me no “rose-buds wet”
One half so beautiful could be,
I love them that they never yet
Spoke one unloving word to me.
There is a sweet and nameless grace
Floating around her form and face,—
The beauty of a lofty soul
Illumes and beautifies the whole.
On lip and brow serenely lies;
And oh, a world of tenderness
Shines softly in her sunny eyes!
Her lips—to me no “rose-buds wet”
One half so beautiful could be,
130
Spoke one unloving word to me.
There is a sweet and nameless grace
Floating around her form and face,—
The beauty of a lofty soul
Illumes and beautifies the whole.
And when the tiresome day is gone
And the sweet evening time comes on,
And wearied out with toil and care,
I sink into my study-chair,—
Closing my eyes to curtain out
The vexing shapes of fear and doubt,—
A tiny foot, with noiseless glide
Comes stealing softly to my side—
Bright curls adown my shoulders twine,
And little fingers hide in mine;—
Oh, I can meet, with dauntless heart,
The sternest, darkest ills of life,
With such a guardian as thou art
My own belovèd wife!
And the sweet evening time comes on,
And wearied out with toil and care,
I sink into my study-chair,—
Closing my eyes to curtain out
The vexing shapes of fear and doubt,—
A tiny foot, with noiseless glide
Comes stealing softly to my side—
Bright curls adown my shoulders twine,
And little fingers hide in mine;—
Oh, I can meet, with dauntless heart,
The sternest, darkest ills of life,
With such a guardian as thou art
My own belovèd wife!
My child! my darling bright-eyed boy!
A happy, laughter-loving sprite,
Whose heart is mirth, whose life is joy,
Undimmed by shade or blight.
He has his mother's curls of gold,
His laugh has just her ringing tone,
And in his features I behold
The softened likeness of my own.
And gazing, oft I wander back
Along my boyhood's flowery track,—
I roam again beside the stream,
I see again the pebbles gleam,
And stooping, see, or seem to see
My face reflected back to me!
A happy, laughter-loving sprite,
Whose heart is mirth, whose life is joy,
Undimmed by shade or blight.
He has his mother's curls of gold,
His laugh has just her ringing tone,
131
The softened likeness of my own.
And gazing, oft I wander back
Along my boyhood's flowery track,—
I roam again beside the stream,
I see again the pebbles gleam,
And stooping, see, or seem to see
My face reflected back to me!
My wife and child! my all on earth!
Oh, what were life, bereft of them?
Beside their love, how little worth
Seems glory's brightest diadem!
My wife and child!—these are the charms
Which makes me cling to earth,—I rise
To circle them in love's fond arms,
And in the act,—unclose my eyes.
Oh, what were life, bereft of them?
Beside their love, how little worth
Seems glory's brightest diadem!
My wife and child!—these are the charms
Which makes me cling to earth,—I rise
To circle them in love's fond arms,
And in the act,—unclose my eyes.
Where, where am I? and where are they?
Alas, the dream has passed away!
I sit here in my darkening room,
Alone amid the dusky gloom,—
Ay, all alone,—no wife, no child,—
A day-dream hath my heart beguiled;—
Alas, that airy fancy's sway
Should play this roguish trick with me!
My wife and child, I sigh to say,
Are yet—alas!—are yet to be!
Alas, the dream has passed away!
I sit here in my darkening room,
Alone amid the dusky gloom,—
Ay, all alone,—no wife, no child,—
A day-dream hath my heart beguiled;—
Alas, that airy fancy's sway
Should play this roguish trick with me!
My wife and child, I sigh to say,
Are yet—alas!—are yet to be!
| Forest buds, from the woods of Maine | |