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 lights that gleamed of yore   Beside this altar burn! The past is plain; ’t was 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.