A Poor Man's Wife

Her dainty hand nestled in mine, rich and white,
And timid as trembling dove;
And it twinkled about me, a jewel of light,
As she garnisht our feast of love:
'Twas the queenliest hand in all lady-land,
And she was a poor Man's wife!
O! little ye'd think how that wee, white hand
Could dare in the battle of Life.

Her heart it was lowly as maiden's might be,
But hath climb'd to heroic height,
And burn'd like a shield in defence of me,
On the sorest field of fight!
And startling as fire, it hath often flasht up
In her eyes, the good heart and rare!
As she drank down her half of our bitterest cup,
And taught me how to bear.

Her sweet eyes that seem'd, with their smile sublime,
Made to look me and light me to heaven,
They have triumph'd thro' bitter tears many a time,
Since their love to my life was given:
And the maiden-meek voice of the womanly Wife
Still bringeth the heavens nigher;
For it rings like the voice of God over my life,
Aye bidding me climb up higher.

I hardly dared think it was human, when
I first lookt in her yearning face;
For it shone as the heavens had open'd then,
And clad it with glory and grace!
But dearer its light of healing grew
In our dark and desolate day,
As the Rainbow, when heaven hath no break of blue,
Smileth the storm away.

O! her shape was the lithest Loveliness, —
Just an armful of heaven to enfold!
But the form that bends flower-like in love's caress,
With the Victor's strength is soul'd!
In her worshipful presence transfigured I stand,
And the poor Man's English home
She lights with the Beauty of Greece the grand,
And the loveliest Raphael in Rome.