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.