"The well-contented heart be fed
Ever as then, and all the world
(It were not small) unshadowèd
When sails were furled.
"Your words"—a pause, and quietly
With touch of calm self-ridicule:
"It may be so—for then," said he,
"I was a fool."
With that he took his book, and left
An awkward silence to my care,
That soon I filled with questions deft
And debonair;
And slid into an easy vein,
The favorite picture of the year;
The grouse upon her lord's domain—
The salmon weir;
Till she could fain a sudden thought
Upon neglected guests, and rise,
And make us her adieux, with nought
In her dark eyes
Acknowledging or shame or pain;
But just unveiling for our view
A little smile of still disdain
As she withdrew.
Then nearer did the sunshine creep,
And warmer came the wafting breeze;
The little babe was fast asleep
On mother's knees.
Fair was the face that o'er it leant,
The cheeks with beauteous blushes dyed;
The downcast lashes, shyly bent,
That failed to hide
Some tender shame. She did not see;
She felt his eyes that would not stir,
She looked upon her babe, and he
So looked at her.
So grave, so wondering, so content,
As one new waked to conscious life,
Whose sudden joy with fear is blent,
He said, "My wife."