At Last

At last, when all the summer shine
That warmed life's early hours is past,
Your loving fingers seek for mine
And hold them close at last at last!
Not oft the robin comes to build
Its nest upon the leafless bough
By autumn robbed, by winter chilled,
But you, dear heart, you love me now.

Though there are shadows on my brow
And furrows on my cheek, in truth,
The marks where Time's remorseless plough
Broke up the blooming sward of Youth,
Though fled is every girlish grace
Might win or hold a lover's vow,
Despite my sad and faded face,
And darkened heart, you love me now!

I count no more my wasted tears;
They left no echo of their fall;
I mourn no more my lonesome years;
This blessed hour atones for all.
I fear not all that Time or Fate
May bring to burden heart or brow,
Strong in the love that came so late,
Our souls shall keep it always now!

Collection: 
1852

More from Poet

  • Once, on a golden afternoon, With radiant faces and hearts in tune, Two fond lovers in dreaming mood Threaded a rural solitude. Wholly happy, they only knew That the earth was bright and the sky was blue, That light and beauty and joy and song Charmed the way as they passed along...

  • Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight, Make me a child again just for to-night! Mother, come back from the echoless shore, Take me again to your heart as of yore; Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair; Over my slumbers your loving watch...

  • Two little feet, so small that both may nestle In one caressing hand,— Two tender feet upon the untried border Of life’s mysterious land. Dimpled, and soft, and pink as peach-tree blossoms, In April’s fragrant days, How can they walk among the briery tangles...

  • Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight, Make me a child again just for to-night! Mother, come back from the echoless shore, Take me again to your heart as of yore; Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair; Over my slumbers your loving watch...

  • This realm is sacred to the silent past; Within its drowsy shades are treasures rare Of dust and dreams; the years are long since last A stranger’s footfall pressed the creaking stair. This room no housewife’s tidy hand disturbs; And here, like some strange presence, ever clings A homesick...