The Poet's Song To His Wife

How many summers, love,
Have I been thine?
How many days, thou dove,
Hast thou been mine?
When't bends the flowers,
Hath left no mark behind
To count the hours!

Some weight of thought, though loth,
On thee he leaves;
Some lines of care round both
Perhaps he weaves:
Some fears - a soft regret
For joys scarce known:
Sweet looks we half forget;
All else has flown!

Ah! with what thankless heart
I mourn and sing!
Look where our children start,
Like sudden spring!
With tongues all sweet and low,
Like a pleasant rhyme,
They tell me how much I owe
To thee and time!

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