L'ENVOI. TO M. W. WHETHER my heart hath wiser grown or not, Young uds plucked hastily by childish hands. And pondered more, and grown a shade more sad; A trust, Beloved, chiefly learned of thee, The instinctive wisdom of a woman's heart, Which, seeing Right, can yet forgive the Wrong, Yet leans with full-confiding piety On the great Spirit that encircles all. Less of that feeling, which the world calls love, Thou findest in my verse, but haply more Of a more precious virtue, born of that, The love of God, of Freedom, and of Man. Thou knowest well what these three years have been, How we have filled and graced each other's hearts, And every day grown fuller of that bliss, Which, even at first, seemed more than we could bear, And thou, meantime, unchanged, except it be Yet thou canst see 'the shadow of thy soul In all my song, and art well-pleased to feel Thou didst not grant to me so rich a fief Then best, when I obey my soul, and tread 'T were joy enough, if I could think that life Were but a barren struggle after joy, To live, and love, and never look beyond Content to let my waveless soul flow on, Reflecting but the spring-time on its brink, And thy clear spirit bending like a sky O'er it, secure that from thy virgin hands My brows should never lack their dearest wreath : But life hath nobler destinies than this, Which to attain is all earth gives of peace. Thou art not of those niggard souls, who deem To string sweet sorrows for apologies To hide the bareness of unfurnished hearts, To prate about the surfaces of things, And make more threadbare what was quite worn out: Our common thoughts are deepest, and to give Such beauteous tones to these, as needs must take Links of bright gold 'twixt Nature and his heart. |