(July 7th, 1839.)
Dearest, I did not dream, four years ago,
When through your veil I saw your bright tear shine,
Caught your clear whisper, exquisitely low,
And felt your soft hand tremble into mine,
That in so brief—so very brief a space,
He who in love both clouds and cheers our life,
Would lay on you, so full of light, joy, grace,
The darker, sadder duties of the wife,—
Doubts, fears, and frequent toil, and constant care
For this poor frame, by sickness sore bestead;
The daily tendance on the fractious chair,
The nightly vigil by the feverish bed.
Yet not unwelcomed doth this morn arise,
Though with more gladsome beams it might have shone;
Strength of these weak hands, light of these dim eyes,
In sickness, as in health,—bless you, My own!