TO MY WIFE .

A H ! once I held the Poet's flame
A steadfast, heavenly star, above
The loftiest lights of mortal fame, —
And to have won the Poet's name
I dreamed was more than love!

Now, were a Shakspeare's radiant crown
By all the Muses borne to me,
I would not grasp that fair renown,
If thus my soul must needs disown
Its love, dear Heart! for thee.

Even Shakspeare's fame at last shall sink,
His titles fail, his splendors die;
But love, — such love as ours, I think,
Was born, o'er Time and Death to drink
Of immortality!

So, for love's sake, but scarce for aught
These wavering strains may sing thee, Sweet,
I bind these sheaves of rhythmic thought,
Spring-sown, but in late autumn brought,
And laid before thy feet!