For thee my form is bowed and worn

With midnight watches on the main;

For thee my soul hath calmly borne

Ills worse than sorrow, more than pain;

Through life, what’er my lot might be,

I lived, dared, suffered, but for thee.

My guerdon!—’Tis a furrowed brow,

Hair gray with grief, eyes dim with tears,

And blighted hope, and broken vow,

And poverty for coming years,