My Love

My Love is true and tender,
Her eyes are rich with rest;
Her hair of dappled splendour,
The colour I love best;
So sweet, so gay, so odorous-warm,
She nestles here, heart-high,
A bounteous aspect, beauteous form,
But, just a wee bit sly.

My Love is no light Dreamer,
A-floating with the foam;
But a brave life-sea swimmer,
With footing found in Home.
My winsome Wife, she's bright without,
And beautiful within;
But — I would not say quite without
The least wee touch of sin.

My Love is not an Angel
In one or two small things:
But just a wifely woman
With other wants than wings.
You have some little leaven
Of earth, you darling dear;
If you were fit for Heaven,
You might not nestle here.