To be his wife! Calm all my soul is filling,
A calm too deep for smiles—or even tears;
A perfect trust to slumber subtly stilling
My whilom doubts and fears.
Each little common thing to me seems rarer,
My life each day becomes more dear to me;
Love, am I fair? Ah, fain would I be fairer—
And yet more fair for thee.
Like to a priestess some loved shrine adorning,
I deck the charms but poorly prized, till late,
The beauty once I held too slight for scorning—
To thee, now consecrate!
As if some god of old had stooped to love me—
Some star had pierced my darkness with its ray—
I worship thee—an idol throned above me—
Forgetting thou art clay.
Rejoicing in the gift that God has given,
I may forget the Giver. Love, I fear
Lest I shall e'en forget to sigh for Heaven—
When heaven for me is here!
VII.
Strange that a love supreme
Should be swayed by a petty pride,
As a straw might turn aside
The swift onflowing tide
Of a mighty seaward stream!
I know that the fault was mine,
But I cannot, will not speak;
How should I, suppliant, meek,
His gracious pardon seek—
Tho' the fault were mine—all mine?
Aye, tho' my heart should break,
Something—or pride or shame—
Forbids me that I should claim
As mine the fault, the blame—
Aye, tho' my heart should break!