Honoria, trebly fair and mild With added loves of lord and child, Is else unalter'd. Years, which wrong The rest, touch not her beauty, young With youth which rather seems her clime, Than aught that's relative to time. How beyond hope was heard the prayer I offer'd in my love's despair! Could any, whilst there's any woe, Be wholly blest, then she were so. She is, and is aware of it, Her husband's endless benefit; But, though their daily ways reveal The depth of private joy they feel, 'Tis not their bearing each to each That does abroad their secret preach, But such a lovely good-intent To all within their government And friendship as, 'tis well discern'd, Each of the other must have learn'd; For no mere dues of neighbourhood Ever begot so blest a mood. And fair, indeed, should be the few God dowers with nothing else to do, And liberal of their light, and free To show themselves, that all may see! For alms let poor men poorly give The meat whereby men's bodies live; But they of wealth are stewards wise Whose graces are their charities. The sunny charm about this home Makes all to shine who thither come. My own dear Jane has caught its grace, And, honour'd, honours too the place. Across the lawn I lately walk'd Alone, and watch'd where mov'd and talk'd, Gentle and goddess-like of air, Honoria and some Stranger fair. I chose a path unblest by these; When one of the two Goddesses, With my Wife's voice, but softer, said, 'Will you not walk with us, dear Fred?' She moves, indeed, the modest peer Of all the proudest ladies here. Unawed she talks with men who stand Among the leaders of the land, And women beautiful and wise, With England's greatness in their eyes. To high, traditional good-sense, And knowledge ripe without pretence, And human truth exactly hit By quiet and conclusive wit, Listens my little, homely Dove, Mistakes the points and laughs for love; And, after, stands and combs her hair, And calls me much the wittiest there! With reckless loyalty, dear Wife, She lays herself about my life! The joy I might have had of yore I have not; for 'tis now no more, With me, the lyric time of youth, And sweet sensation of the truth. Yet, past my hope or purpose bless'd, In my chance choice let be confess'd The tenderer Providence that rules The fates of children and of fools! I kiss'd the kind, warm neck that slept, And from her side this morning stepp'd, To bathe my brain from drowsy night In the sharp air and golden light. The dew, like frost, was on the pane. The year begins, though fair, to wane. There is a fragrance in its breath Which is not of the flowers, but death; And green above the ground appear The lilies of another year. I wander'd forth, and took my path Among the bloomless aftermath; And heard the steadfast robin sing As if his own warm heart were Spring, And watch'd him feed where, on the yew, Hung honey'd drops of crimson dew; And then return'd, by walls of peach, And pear-trees bending to my reach, And rose-beds with the roses gone, To bright-laid breakfast. Mrs. Vaughan Was there, none with her. I confess I love her than of yore no less! But she alone was loved of old; Now love is twain, nay, manifold; For, somehow, he whose daily life Adjusts itself to one true wife, Grows to a nuptial, near degree With all that's fair and womanly. Therefore, as more than friends, we met, Without constraint, without regret; The wedded yoke that each had donn'd Seeming a sanction, not a bond. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...JOHN BROWN by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON A LITTLE BOY LOST, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE WINTER NIGHT by CH'IEN WEN OF LIANG FATHER LAND AND MOTHER TONGUE by SAMUEL LOVER PROUD MAISIE, FR. THE HEART OF MIDLOTHIAN by WALTER SCOTT |