Thou art like the bird
That alights and sings
Though the frail spray bends--
For he knows he has wings.

FANNY KEMBLE (BUTLER)



THE POET TO HIS WIFE.

_("A toi, toujours a toi.")_

[XXXIX., 1823]


To thee, all time to thee,
My lyre a voice shall be!
Above all earthly fashion,
Above mere mundane rage,
Your mind made it my passion
To write for noblest stage.

Whoe'er you be, send blessings to her--she
Was sister of my soul immortal, free!
My pride, my hope, my shelter, my resource,
When green hoped not to gray to run its course;
She was enthroned Virtue under heaven's dome,
My idol in the shrine of curtained home.