04.11.2013, 19:22
TO MY WIFE.
Thou mistress of my heart ! my chosen one !
To what shall I my love for thee compare ?
Not to the star that lights the upper air,
For that goes out when Night's career is run :
Not to the moon, which clouds, opaque and dun,
Obscurely hide — though beautiful and fair,
Marks of inconstancy its features wear :
Not to the naming, overheated sun :
Not to the trusty needle, ever pointing North ;
For, though attracted, it vibration knows.
Nor star, moon, sun, nor needle, can show forth
The steadfast love that in my bosom glows :
Bright is the flame — undying as thy worth —
Changeless as Truth, and chaste as wintry snows.
Thou mistress of my heart ! my chosen one !
To what shall I my love for thee compare ?
Not to the star that lights the upper air,
For that goes out when Night's career is run :
Not to the moon, which clouds, opaque and dun,
Obscurely hide — though beautiful and fair,
Marks of inconstancy its features wear :
Not to the naming, overheated sun :
Not to the trusty needle, ever pointing North ;
For, though attracted, it vibration knows.
Nor star, moon, sun, nor needle, can show forth
The steadfast love that in my bosom glows :
Bright is the flame — undying as thy worth —
Changeless as Truth, and chaste as wintry snows.