 | The American common-place book of poetry |  |
The Wife.—New York Daily Advertiser.
“She flung her white arms around him—Thou art
That this poor heart can cling to.”
That this poor heart can cling to.”
I could have stemmed misfortune's tide,
And borne the rich one's sneer,
Have braved the haughty glance of pride,
Nor shed a single tear.
I could have smiled on every blow
From Life's full quiver thrown,
While I might gaze on thee, and know
I should not be “alone.”
And borne the rich one's sneer,
Have braved the haughty glance of pride,
Nor shed a single tear.
I could have smiled on every blow
From Life's full quiver thrown,
While I might gaze on thee, and know
I should not be “alone.”
I could—I think I could have brooked,
E'en for a time, that thou
Upon my fading face hadst looked
With less of love than now;
For then I should at least have felt
The sweet hope still my own,
To win thee back, and, whilst I dwelt
On earth, not been “alone.”
E'en for a time, that thou
Upon my fading face hadst looked
With less of love than now;
For then I should at least have felt
The sweet hope still my own,
To win thee back, and, whilst I dwelt
On earth, not been “alone.”
But thus to see, from day to day,
Thy brightening eye and cheek,
And watch thy life-sands waste away,
Unnumbered, slowly, meek;—
To meet thy smiles of tenderness,
And catch the feeble tone
Of kindness, ever breathed to bless,
And feel, I'll be “alone;”—
Thy brightening eye and cheek,
And watch thy life-sands waste away,
Unnumbered, slowly, meek;—
To meet thy smiles of tenderness,
And catch the feeble tone
Of kindness, ever breathed to bless,
And feel, I'll be “alone;”—
To mark thy strength each hour decay,
And yet thy hopes grow stronger,
As, filled with heaven-ward trust, they say,
“Earth may not claim thee longer;”
Nay, dearest; 'tis too much—this heart
Must break, when thou art gone;
It must not be; we may not part;
I could not live “alone!”
And yet thy hopes grow stronger,
114
“Earth may not claim thee longer;”
Nay, dearest; 'tis too much—this heart
Must break, when thou art gone;
It must not be; we may not part;
I could not live “alone!”
| The American common-place book of poetry | |