My little wife is out beyond the burn,
⁠I see her parasol behind the fir,
⁠And here am I inditing verse to her
⁠Ere she return.

That pretty bird is happy there conceal'd,
⁠This fragrant chamber smiles a peaceful smile, —
⁠What joy to sing the joys of home — the while
⁠My joy's afield!

My spouse is mild — she's meek as any nun,
⁠And yet her spiritual calm is such …
⁠Somehow one's always feeling she is much
⁠Too good for one.

She thinks I'm wise and handsome — 'tis her creed.
⁠I wonder am I either! On my word
⁠Sometimes I've wonder'd "an my bonnie bird"
⁠Think so indeed:

Perhaps! for she my homage ne'er repels;
⁠Perhaps I might have loved her half a life,
⁠Perhaps — had she but been the little wife
⁠Of some one else.

But why should I complain of cross or cares?
⁠While entertaining her (who won't complain)
⁠It may be I an angel entertain
⁠— And unawares.

What do I see? — that face so fair,
⁠My friend of years too bright to last,
Living again in beauty rare
⁠As yonder omnibus went past.

Amid surroundings rude and low,
⁠:Stood out the gem-like profile clear;
The mouth carved like a perfect bow,
⁠The auburn curls that were so dear.

Can there be two with such a face?
⁠:The other, which I thought unique,
Lies 'neath the ivy's sheltering grace,
⁠Since many a year and month and week.

Say shall I follow? Shall I try
⁠To leave my death-in-life and live?
The picture lost, alas! I cry—
⁠Some joy may not the copy give?

Nay, while so much of good and great
⁠Is round thy path and at thy side,
Force not the hands of wiser fate
⁠To give the joy supreme denied.

Yet am I thankful for the glance
⁠Vouchsafed me at thy face divine;
That for one moment sweet of trance,
⁠I lived the life that once was mine.

Adieu — thou fadest as a dream;
⁠The work-day world is hack once more:
Gone is that sudden rosy gleam,
⁠And — here's the Athenæum door.

He gave me his promise of changeless truth,
⁠(Down in the wood where the ivy clings);
And the air breathed rapture, and love, and youth,
⁠(And yon tree was in bud where the throstle sings).

He said he was going across the sea,
⁠(Far from the wood where the ivy clings),
And would bring back riches and jewels for me
⁠(But brown leaves shake where the throstle sings).

Hope made life like a summer morn;
⁠(Sweet was the wood where the ivy clings);
Now my heart is cold, and withered, and worn,
⁠(And the bough is bare where the throstle sings).

Days are dreary, and life is long;
⁠(Yet down in the wood the ivy clings),
And the winds they moan a desolate song,
⁠(And there's snow on the bough where no throstle sings).

Spring will come with its buds and leaves
⁠(Back to the wood where the ivy clings);
But 'tis winter cold for the heart that grieves,
⁠(And I hear not the song that the throstle sings).

I Love thee; why, I cannot tell.
⁠A thousand nameless winning ways
Around thee weave their magic spell,
⁠And make words poor to speak thy praise.

I love thee; not because thine eyes
⁠Are matched by heaven's celestial blue,
But in thy trustful look there lies
⁠Th' unspoken promise to be true.

I love thee for some subtle charm
⁠That seems to draw my heart to thine;
Thy voice and look my fears disarm,
⁠And tell me thou art only mine.

I love thee; not for wealth or fame —
⁠No worldly wish holds thought of thee;
And since thy heart reveals the same,
⁠How bright with hope our lives may be!