"Come down, that we may show the view,
And she may hear your voice again,
And talk her woman's talk with you
Along the lane."
Since he had drawn with listless hand
The letter, six long years had fled,
And winds had blown about the sand,
And they were wed.
Two rosy urchins near him played,
Or watched, entranced, the shapely ships
That with his knife for them he made
Of elder slips.
And where the flowers were thickest shed,
Each blossom like a burnished gem,
A creeping baby reared its head,
And cooed at them.
And calm was on the father's face,
And love was in the mother's eyes;
She looked and listened from her place,
In tender wise.
She did not need to raise her voice
That they might hear, she sat so nigh;
Yet we could speak when 'twas our choice,
And soft reply.
Holding our quiet talk apart
Of household things; till, all unsealed,
The guarded outworks of the heart
Began to yield;
And much that prudence will not dip
The pen to fix and send away,
Passed safely over from the lip
That summer day.
"I should be happy," with a look
Towards her husband where he lay,
Lost in the pages of his book,
Soft did she say.
"I am, and yet no lot below
For one whole day eludeth care;
To marriage all the stories flow,
And finish there:
"As if with marriage came the end,
The entrance into settled rest,
The calm to which love's tossings tend,
The quiet breast.
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