Will you love me yet
When the duns come in? ... ’Tis an even bet.
Ah! I try to think, as I feel your breath,
Like a perfume thrown from a Glory rose,
That our path will lead (as the poet saith)
In a pleasant field, where the wild thyme blows——
But, wife of mine!
Will your star still shine
When he’s loaded down to the Plimsoll line?
Oh, I like you thus, with your nut-brown hair