Classic Poem

Life seems to thee more earnest, dearest!
And is it not the same with me?
Why, sweet, each shadow that thou fearest
To me becomes reality —
A thought — a pang to mar my gladness,
And cloud my brow with tender sadness —
And all of loving thee!

The jest from which thou often turnest
Is only love's fond thoughtful guile,
And comes from heart in love most earnest
When it would make thee smile —
Is but the stream's bright circles breaking
Beneath thy blessed tear-drops — waking
Love's dimples there the while.