Though she will never read these lines I write,
I yet would have near me day and night;
Though years have passed, I still thrill at the sight
Of her. How could I not? But more I thrill
That she remains yet with me, good and ill,
And more the latter, has not had her fill
And passed on by, as many might well do.
For all that I have given cause to rue
Accepting life with me, she carries through,
Abiding my unthinking in seeming ease.
No wonder, then, that I hope her to please
With word and deed. That tempest is a breeze
I face with her. It is an easy life
I lead in leading it beside my wife.

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