To M. T.
THOUGH thy constant love I share,
Yet its gift is rarer;
In my youth I thought thee fair:
Thou art older and fairer!
Full of more than young delight
Now day and night are;
For the presence, then so bright,
Is closer, brighter.
In the haste of youth we miss
Its best of blisses:
Sweeter than the stolen kiss
Are the granted kisses.
Dearer than the words that hide
The love abiding,
Are the words that fondly chide,
When love needs chiding.
Higher than the perfect song
For which love longeth,
Is the tender fear of wrong,
That never wrongeth.
She whom youth alone makes dear
May awhile seem nearer:
Thou art mine so many a year,
The older, the dearer!
