George Powell Thomas

THOU art not here! And ere we meet again,

Long years may pass away, and even thou,

My fair young bride,—some shadows on thy brow,

The tokens some of time and some of pain,

May, ere that hour, have stolen in, to stain

The fairest face that e’er won lover’s vow.—

What matter? Be thy heart as it is now;

Let that its freshness, beauty, truth retain,

And something of its own sweet power to adorn

Whate’er it loves, with such divinest light

As hovers o’er the mountain-top at morn,

Yet makes the poorest blossom heavenly bright:

Blest in those arms from which I now am torn,

I shall note nothing, then, of time or blight.