I wonder, Darling, if there does not wear
Something from love with love's so daily use;
If in the sweetness of his vigorous juice
Time's bitter finger dips not here or there!
What thing of earthly growth itself can hear
Above its nature, overrule abuse,
And, like the marvel of the widow's cruse,
Freshen its taint, and all its loss repair?
I can but wonder at the faithful heart
That makes thy face so joyous in my sight,
And fills each moment with its own delight.
I can but wonder at the shades that start
Across thy features, as we stand tonight,
With lips thus clinging, in the act to part.