She did not need to raise her voice
That they might hear, she sat so nigh;
Yet we could speak when 'twas our choice,
And soft reply.
Holding our quiet talk apart
Of household things; till, all unsealed,
The guarded outworks of the heart
Began to yield;
And much that prudence will not dip
The pen to fix and send away,
Passed safely over from the lip
That summer day.
"I should be happy," with a look
Towards her husband where he lay,
Lost in the pages of his book,
Soft did she say.
"I am, and yet no lot below
For one whole day eludeth care;
To marriage all the stories flow,
And finish there:
"As if with marriage came the end,
The entrance into settled rest,
The calm to which love's tossings tend,
The quiet breast.
"For me love played the low preludes,
Yet life began but with the ring,
Such infinite solicitudes
Around it cling.
"I did not for my heart divine
Her destiny so meek to grow;
The higher nature matched with mine
Will have it so.
"Still I consider it, and still
Acknowledge it my master made,
Above me by the steadier will
Of nought afraid.
"Above me by the candid speech;
The temperate judgment of its own;
The keener thoughts that grasp and reach
At things unknown.