The very geese and storks to me, when in their passage north,
Seemed by their cries, my distant love, to tear my heartstrings forth.
No more my lute—though thou wert strong, with passion was I wrung;
My grief was its utmost bent—my song was still unsung.
Ah! husband, lord, thy love I feel is stable as the hills;
’Tis joy to think each hour of this—a balm for countless ills!
I had but woven half my task—I gave it to his Grace:
O grant my husband quick release, I pine for his embrace!
THE TEA-PICKER’S BALLAD.