To My Wife, on Modelling My Bust

An, Marian mine, the face you look on now
Is not exactly like my wedding day's :
Sunk is its cheek, deeper-retired its gaze.
Less white and smooth it's temple-flattened brow.
Sorrow has been there with his silent plough.
And strait, stern hand. No matter, if it raise
Aught that affection fancies, it may praise,
Or make me worthier of Apollo's bough.

Loss, after all, — such loss especially, —
Is transfer, change, but not extinction, — no;
Part in our children's apple cheeks I see ;
And, for the rest, while you look at me so,
Take care, you do not smile it back to me,
And miss the copied furrows as you go.