Part 204

In the gardens of Life we strayed together, And the luscious apples were ripe and red, And the languid lilac, and honeyed heather Swooned with the fragrance which they shed; And under the trees the angels walked, And up in the air a sense of wings Awed us tenderly while we talked Softly in sacred communings.

In the meadows of Life we strayed together, Watching the waving harvests grow, And under the benison of the Father Our hearts, like the lambs, skipped to and fro; And the cowslip, hearing our low replies, Broidered fairer the emerald banks, And glad tears shone in the daisy's eyes, And the timid violet glistened thanks.

Who was with us, and what was round us, Neither myself nor my darling guessed; Only we knew that something crowned us Out from the heavens with crowns of rest; Only we knew that something bright Lingered lovingly where we stood, Clothed with the incandescent light Of something higher than humanhood.

Oh, the riches Love doth inherit! Oh, the alchemy which doth change Dross of body and dregs of spirit Into sanctities rare and strange! My flesh is feeble, and dry, and old, My darling's beautiful hair is gray; But our elixir and precious gold Laugh at the footsteps of decay.

Harms of the world have come unto us, Cups of sorrow we yet shall drain; But we have a secret which doth show us Wonderful rainbows in the rain. And we hear the tread of the years move by, And the sun is setting behind the hills; But my darling does not fear to die, And I am happy in what God wills.

So we sit by our household fires together, Dreaming the dreams of long ago; Then it was balmy, sunny weather, And now the valleys are laid in snow; Icicles hang from the slippery eaves, The wind blows cold, - 'tis growing late; Well, well! we have garnered all our sheaves, I and my darling, and we wait.

Richard Realf [1834-1878]

THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE

How many summers, love, Have I been thine? How many days, thou dove, Hast thou been mine? Time, like the winged wind When it bends the flowers, Hath left no mark behind, To count the hours.

Some weight of thought, though loth, On thee he leaves; Some lines of care round both Perhaps he weaves; Some fears, - a soft regret For joys scarce known; Sweet looks we half forget; - All else is flown!

Ah! - With what thankless heart I mourn and sing! Look, where our children start, Like sudden Spring! With tongues all sweet and low, Like a pleasant rhyme, They tell how much I owe To thee and Time!

Bryan Waller Procter [1787-1874]

JOHN ANDERSON

John Anderson my jo, John, When we were first acquent Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is bald, John, Your locks are like the snow; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson my jo.

John Anderson my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither, And mony a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo.

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

TO MARY

"Thee, Mary, with this ring I wed, So, fourteen years ago, I said - Behold another ring! - "For what? To wed thee o'er again - why not?"

With that first ring I married Youth, Grace, Beauty, Innocence, and Truth; Taste long admired, sense long revered, And all my Molly then appeared. If she, by merit since disclosed, Prove twice the woman I supposed, I plead that double merit now, To justify a double vow.

Here then, to-day, (with faith as sure, With ardor as intense and pure, As when, amidst the rites divine, I took thy troth, and plighted mine), To thee, sweet girl, my second ring A token, and a pledge, I bring; With this I wed, till death us part, Thy riper virtues to my heart; Those virtues, which, before untried, The wife has added to the bride; Those virtues, whose progessive claim, Endearing wedlock's very name, My soul enjoys, my song approves, For Conscience' sake, as well as Love's.

For why? - They show me every hour, Honor's high thought, Affection's power, Discretion's deed, sound Judgment's sentence, And teach me all things - but Repentance.

Samuel Bishop [1731-1795]

THE GOLDEN WEDDING

O Love, whose patient pilgrim feet Life's longest path have trod; Whose ministry hath symbolled sweet The dearer love of God; The sacred myrtle wreathes again Thine altar, as of old; And what was green with summer then, Is mellowed now to gold.

Not now, as then, the future's face Is flushed with fancy's light; But memory, with a milder grace, Shall rule the feast to-night. Blest was the sun of joy that shone, Nor less the blinding shower; The bud of fifty years agone Is love's perfected flower.

O memory, ope thy mystic door; O dream of youth, return; And let the light that gleamed of yore Beside this altar burn. The past is plain; 'twas love designed E'en sorrow's iron chain; And, mercy's shining thread has twined With the dark warp of pain.

So be it still. O Thou who hast That younger bridal blest, Till the May-morn of love has passed To evening's golden west; Come to this later Cana, Lord, And, at thy touch divine, The water of that earlier board To-night shall turn to wine.

David Gray [1837-1888]