Stricken with deadly blight: more wan and weak
Her love replies in blanching lip and cheek,
And gentler in her dear eyes, day by day.
God, in Thy mercy, bid the arm delay,
Which thro’ her being smites to dust my own!
Thou gav’st the seed Thy sun and showers; why slay
The blossoms yet unblown?
In vain,—in vain! God will not bid the Spring
Replace with sudden green the Autumn’s gold;
And as the night-mists, gathering damp and cold,