TO A POET ON HIS MARRIAGE

Ever and ever, on and on,

From winter dusk to April dawn,

This old enchanted world we range

From night to light — from change to change —

Or path of burs or lily-bells,

We walk a world of miracles.

The morning evermore must be

A newer, purer mystery —

The dewy grasses, or the bloom

Of orchards, or the wood's perfume

Of wild sweet-williams, or the wet

Blent scent of loam and violet.

How wondrous all the ways we fare —

What marvels wait us, unaware!...

But yesterday, with eyes ablur

And heart that held no hope of Her,

You paced the lone path, but the true

That led to where she waited you.