Standing on the threshold, with her wakening heart and mind,
Standing on the threshold, with her childhood left behind;
The woman softness blending with the look of sweet surprise
For life and all its marvels that lights the clear blue eyes.

Standing on the threshold, with light foot and fearless hand,
As the young knight by his armour in a minster nave might stand;
The fresh red lip just touching youth's ruddy rapturous wine,
The eager heart all brave, pure hope, oh happy child of mine!

I could guard the helpless infant that nestled in my arms;
I could save the prattler's golden head from petty baby harms;
I could brighten childhood's gladness, and comfort childhood's tears,
But I cannot cross the threshold with the step of riper years.

For hopes, and joys, and maiden dreams are waiting for her there.
Where girlhood's fancies bud and bloom in April's golden air;
And passionate love, and passionate grief, and passionate gladness lie
Among the crimson flowers that spring as youth goes fluttering by.

Ah! on those rosy pathways is no place for sobered feet.
My tired eyes have naught of strength such fervid glow to meet;
My voice is all too sad to sound amid the joyous notes
Of the music that through charmed air for opening girlhood floats.

Yet thorns amid the leaves may lurk, and thunder-clouds may lower,
And death, or change, or falsehood blight the jasmine in thy bower;
May God avert the woe, my child; but oh! should tempest come.
Remember, by the threshold waits the patient love of home!

Dame Poesy — there are on whom she showers
The largess of her love with liberal hand,
Who in her arrassed presence-chamber stand
Crowned with her gifts of fadeless song for flowers.

And there are those again whom she devours
With fiery blinding kisses — as a brand
Burning, a cloud love-lurid o'er the lands
Flashing forth passion fierce as pain.

⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠But ours,
Ours is a love, if so perchance it be
That I have place at all within her heart.
Other than these, and humbler for my part,
Who am content when there has fallen on me
In life's dull champaign, for a little while,
The flitting April favour of her smile.

Make me no vows of constancy, dear friend.
⁠To love me, though I die, thy whole life long,
And love no other till thy days shall end —
⁠⁠Nay, it were rash and wrong.

If thou canst love another, be it so;
⁠I would not reach out of my quiet grave
To bind thy heart, if it should choose to go —
⁠⁠Love should not be a slave.

My placid ghost, I trust, will walk serene
⁠In clearer light than gilds those earthly morns.
Above the jealousies and envies keen
⁠⁠Which sow this life with thorns.

Thou wouldst not feel my shadowy caress,
⁠If, after death, my soul should linger here;
Men's hearts crave tangible, close tenderness,
⁠⁠Love's presence, warm and near.

It would not make me sleep more peacefully
⁠That thou wert wasting all thy life in woe
For my poor sake; what love thou hast for me,
⁠⁠Bestow it ere I go!

Carve not upon a stone when I am dead
⁠The praises which remorseful mourners give
To women's graves — a tardy recompense —
⁠⁠But speak them while I live.

Heap not the heavy marble on my head
⁠To shut away the sunshine and the dew;
Let small blooms grow there, and let grasses wave,
⁠⁠And raindrops filter through.

Thou wilt meet many fairer and more gay
⁠Than I; but trust me, thou canst never find
One who will love and serve thee night and day
⁠⁠With a more single mind.

Forget me when I die! The violets
⁠Above my rest will blossom just as blue,
Nor miss my tears; e'en nature's self forgets;
⁠⁠But while I live, be true!