On the Death of His Wife

When hand in hand, we two did wend
Adown the paths of Life our way,
And from the dike's ridge yonder, gazed
On the dense elm-trees' green array,
From out whose leafy canopy,
Glimpsed here and there, our cottage eaves;
Then were our tender thoughts of love,
Frequent as are the fresh spring leaves
Upon the tangled boughs.

Leaning on thee; my very soul
Rested in perfect trust on thee.
Sad is the doom that none may shun,
Mournful the fate that none may flee!
Over the far-flung purple moor,
'Midst the white funeral banners borne,
Slowly they take thee, thou who rose
With the wild-fowl at break of dawn,
And they must hide thee far away,
As sunset-hills hide out the day.
Thy little son, a memory
Of thy dear self, weeps bitter tears,
And seeks for comfort in my arms.
I fondle him, to soothe his fears;
But with a man's unskilful hand,
Lacking the tender touch that cheers.
Our chamber, now so desolate,
Where once all close our pillows lay!
The night is filled with loneliness,
And sorrow darkens all the day.
I know thou sleepest on the hill
Of the cock-crowing, but in vain
I climb its steep and stony heights,
Nor one dim moment shall again
On her, who living, I loved best
These eyes of mine adoring rest!
Homewards I turn, and in our lonely room,
Without the alcove, in the silent gloom
My gaze falls on thy pillow!

Still the fair moon illumes the Autumn night,
As when last year we marvelled at its light,
But between thee and me, a year's whole space,
That one past year divideth!