WERE I but his own wife, to guard and to guide him, 'T is little of sorrow should fall on my dear; I'd chant my low love-verses, stealing beside him, So faint and so tender his heart would but hear; I'd pull the wild blossoms from valley and highland; And there at his feet I would lay them all down; I'd sing him the songs of our poor stricken island, Till his heart was on fire with a love like my own. There's a rose by his dwelling -- I'd tend the lone treasure, That he might have flowers when the summer would come; There's a harp in his hall -- I would wake its sweet measure, For he must have music to brighten his home. Were I but his own wife, to guide and to guard him, 'T is little of sorrow should fall on my dear; For every kind glance my whole life would award him -- In sickness I'd soothe and in sadness I'd cheer. My heart is a fount welling upward for ever, When I think of my true-love, by night or by day; That heart keeps its faith like a fast-flowing river Which gushes for ever and sings on its way. I have thoughts full of peace for his soul to repose in, Were I but his own wife, to win and to woo -- Oh, sweet, if the night of misfortune were closing, To rise like the morning star, darling for you! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE VOICE OF THE ANCIENT BARD, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE THE AFRICAN CHIEF by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT MERCILES BEAUTE; A TRIPLE ROUNDEL: 2. REJECTION by GEOFFREY CHAUCER TO A DOG'S MEMORY by LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY UPON PRUE, HIS MAID by ROBERT HERRICK A CHILD'S SONG OF CHRISTMAS by MARJORIE LOWRY CHRISTIE PICKTHALL IN AN ARTIST'S STUDIO by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI GHOST-BEREFT; A SCENE FROM BOGLAND IN WAR-TIME by JANE BARLOW |