Bliss Carman, et al., eds. The World’s Best Poetry. 1904.
VIII. Wedded LoveWere I but his own wife
Ellen Mary Downing (18281869)W
’T is little of sorrow should fall on my dear;
I ’d chant my low love-verses, stealing beside him,
So faint and so tender his heart would but hear;
I ’d pull the wild blossoms from valley and highland;
And there at his feet I would lay them all down;
I ’d sing him the songs of our poor stricken island,
Till his heart was on fire with a love like my own.
That he might have flowers when the summer would come;
There ’s a harp in his hall—I would wake its sweet measure,
For he must have music to brighten his home.
Were I but his own wife, to guide and to guard him,
’T is little of sorrow should fall on my dear;
For every kind glance my whole life would award him—
In sickness I ’d soothe and in sadness I ’d cheer.
When I think of my true-love, by night or by day;
That heart keeps its faith like a fast-flowing river
Which gushes for ever and sings on its way.
I have thoughts full of peace for his soul to repose in,
Were I but his own wife, to win and to woo—
Oh, sweet, if the night of misfortune were closing,
To rise like the morning star, darling for you!