The Faithful Wife
If thou wert only always with me, Dear!
The woodland wild and drear,
The lowly hut, this daily labouring,—
To ply the needle, turn the winding wheel,
Beat the wet cloths beside the stream, and bring
Grass from the mountain brow;—I should not feel
That these were toils, but joys;—if only, Dear!
Thou wert for ever near.
The woodland wild and drear,
The lowly hut, this daily labouring,—
To ply the needle, turn the winding wheel,
Beat the wet cloths beside the stream, and bring
Grass from the mountain brow;—I should not feel
That these were toils, but joys;—if only, Dear!
Thou wert for ever near.
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