The Wife
I could have stemmed misfortune’s tide,
And borne the rich one’s sneer,—
Have braved the haughty glance of pride,
Nor shed a single tear;
I could have smiled on every blow
From life’s full quiver thrown,
While I might gaze on thee, and know
I should not be alone.
I could—I think I could—have brooked,
E’en for a time, that thou
Upon my fading face hadst looked
With less of love than now;
For then I should at least have felt
The sweet hope still my own
To win thee back, and whilst I dwelt
On earth, not been alone.
But thus to see from day to day
Thy brightening eye and cheek,
And watch thy life-sands waste away,
Unnumbered, slow, and meek;
To meet thy smiles of tenderness,
And catch the feeble tone
Of kindness, ever breathed to bless,
And feel I ’ll be alone;
To mark thy strength each hour decay,
And yet thy hopes grow stronger,
As, filled with heavenward trust, they say
Earth may not claim thee longer;
Nay, dearest, ’t is too much—this heart
Must break when thou art gone:
It must not be; we must not part;
I could not live alone.