Her promised bower of happiness seem’d nigh,
Its days of joy, its vigils of delight.
And though at times might lower the thunder-storm,
And the red lightnings threaten, still the air
Was balmy with her breath, and her loved form,
The rainbow of the heart, was hovering there.
’Tis in life’s noontide she is nearest seen,
Her wreath the summer flower, her robe of summer green.
But though less dazzling in her twilight dress,
There’s more of heaven’s pure beam about her now;