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Home  »  An American Anthology, 1787–1900  »  334 The Wife

Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.

By Anna PeyreDinnies

334 The Wife

I COULD have stemmed misfortune’s tide,

And borne the rich one’s sneer,—

Have braved the haughty glance of pride,

Nor shed a single tear;

I could have smiled on every blow

From life’s full quiver thrown,

While I might gaze on thee, and know

I should not be alone.

I could—I think I could—have brooked,

E’en for a time, that thou

Upon my fading face hadst looked

With less of love than now;

For then I should at least have felt

The sweet hope still my own

To win thee back, and whilst I dwelt

On earth, not been alone.

But thus to see from day to day

Thy brightening eye and cheek,

And watch thy life-sands waste away,

Unnumbered, slow, and meek;

To meet thy smiles of tenderness,

And catch the feeble tone

Of kindness, ever breathed to bless,

And feel I ’ll be alone;

To mark thy strength each hour decay,

And yet thy hopes grow stronger,

As, filled with heavenward trust, they say

Earth may not claim thee longer;

Nay, dearest, ’t is too much—this heart

Must break when thou art gone:

It must not be; we must not part;

I could not live alone.