George Henry Boker (1823–1890)

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 and there?

What thing of earthly growth itself can bear

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 a new delight.

I can but wonder at the shades that start

Across thy features as we stand to-night,

With lips thus clinging, in the act to part.