The guests are gone,—the pageantry
Has vanished like some brilliant dream:
The lamps are out—on thee and me
Only the moonlight sheds its gleam.
In this sweet hour—all else forgot
Save love—for us the world is not;
Naught reck we of its praise or curse.
Thou art, and I; and we two stand
Within a sweet enchantment land,
Alone amid the Universe.

All will come back,—the busy throng,
Discordant voices, jostling feet,—
And waves of trouble swift and strong,
Against our walls shall break and beat.
But not to-night,—no, not to-night!
As sleeps yon lake, so calm, so bright,
No rippling on its shining breast,
So sleeps all thought of future ill;
We only feel the throb and thrill
That stirs two hearts when fully blest.

I give thee all, dear love, and so
I learn the rarest bliss of living,
The purest rapture mortals know,—
The joy ineffable of giving.
'Tis thine for aye; a stream so deep
Can never flow with backward sweep;
No drought can shrink its living tide,—
Unless, unless thine eye grow cold,
And thy strong arm its tender fold
Unclasp, to spurn me from thy side.

That cannot be. Thy tenderness,
Thy thrilling glance, thy gentle tone,
Thy watchful care, thy dear caress,—
These are—they will be—all my own.
They say that love's a torrent's dash,
A sudden fire, a meteor-flash,
That blazes and then dies away.
Believe it not. True love's a sun,
That steadily, till life is done,
Shines on and on, with quenchless ray.