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1828–1867

III

Henry Timrod

But now, stand forth as sweet as life! And let me paint you as a wife. I note some changes in your face, And in your mien a graver grace;

Yet the calm forehead lightly bears Its weight of twice a score of years; And that one love which on this earth Can wake the heart to all its worth,

And to their height can lift and bind The powers of soul, and sense, and mind, Hath not allowed a charm to fade — And the wife's lovelier than the maid.

An air of still, though bright repose Tells that a tender hand bestows All that a generous manhood may To make your life one bridal day,

While the kind eyes betray no less, In their blue depths of tenderness, That you have learned the truths which lie Behind that holy mystery,

Which, with its blisses and its woes, Nor man nor maiden ever knows. If now, as to the eyes of one Whose glance not even thought can shun,

Your soul lay open to my view, I, looking all its nature through, Could see no incompleted part, For the whole woman warms your heart.

I cannot tell how many dead You number in the cycles fled, And you but look the more serene For all the griefs you may have seen,

As you had gathered from the dust The flowers of Peace, and Hope, and Trust. Your smile is even sweeter now Than when it lit your maiden brow,

And that which wakes this gentler charm Coos at this moment on your arm. Your voice was always soft in youth, And had the very sound of truth,

But never were its tones so mild Until you blessed your earliest child; And when to soothe some little wrong It melts into a mother's song,

The same strange sweetness which in years Long vanished filled the eyes with tears, And ( even when mirthful ) gave always A pathos to your girlish lays,

Falls, with perchance a deeper thrill, Upon the breathless listener still. I cannot guess in what fair spot The chance of Time hath fixed your lot,

Nor can I name what manly breast Gives to that head a welcome rest; I cannot tell if partial Fate Hath made you poor, or rich, or great;

But oh! whatever be your place, I never saw a form or face To which more plainly hath been lent The blessing of a full content!

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III · Henry Timrod · Poetry Cove