THE FIRESIDE CHAIRS; HUSBAND TO WIFE by WILLIAM BARNES

THE daylight gains upon the night,
And birds are out in later flight:
'Tis cold enough to spread our hands,
Once now and then, to glowing brands.
So now we two are here alone
To make a quiet hour our own,
We'll take, with face to face, once more
Our places on the warm hearth floor,
Where you shall have the window view
Outside, and I can look on you.

When first I brought you home, my bride,
In yellow glow of summer tide,
I wanted you to take a chair
On that side of the fire -- out there --
And have the ground and sky in sight,
With face against the window light;
While I, back here, should have my brow
In shade, and sit where I am now;
That you might see the land outside,
And I might look on you, my bride.

And there the gliding waters spread,
By waving elm-trees over head,
Below the hill that slopes above
The path, along the high-treed grove,
Where sighing winds once whisper'd down
Our whisper'd words; and there's the crown
Of @3Duncliffe@1 hill, where widening shades
Of timber fall on sloping glades:
So you enjoy the green and blue
Without, and I will look on you.

And there we pull'd, within the copse,
With nutting-crooks the hazel tops,
That now arise, unleaved and black,
Too thin to keep the wind-blast back;
And there's the church, and spreading lime,
Where we did meet at evening time,
In clusters, on the beaten green,
In glee to see and to be seen;
All old sights, welcomer than new,
And look'd on, as I look'd on you.

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