To a Poet on His Marriage


EVER and ever, on and on,
From winter dusk, to April dawn,
This old enchanted world we range
From night to light — from change to change —
Or path of burs or lily-bells,
We walk a world of miracles.

The morning evermore must be
A newer, purer mystery —
The dewy grasses, or the bloom
Of orchards, or the wood's perfume
Of wild sweet-williams, or the wet
Blent scent of loam and violet.

How wondrous all the ways we fare —
What marvels wait us, unaware! . . .
But yesterday, with eyes ablur
And heart that held no hope of Her,
You paced the lone path, but the true
That led to where she waited you.
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