Think not, dear husband, that my heart
Hath ever blamed thee for its pains;
Dearer and closer still thou art,
As life's short day too swiftly wanes.
'Tis true I left my father's home;
I left it gladly, love, for thee:
And thou in sunshine and in gloom,
Hast been the universe to me.
'Tis true that we are poor, too poor,—
But there's a joy in poverty;
I well knew what we must endure;—
How can I murmur, then, at thee?
Twine thy loved arms around me, dear!
Pillow my head upon thy breast;
And while our pitiless fate draws near,
Let us prepare to take our rest.
And I will sing to thee, the song
By which my virgin heart was won,
Till thou shalt wander back, among
Those joys that now, alas! are gone.
So let our poor lives faint away,
Like the sad cadence of the strain;
And like twin stars at dawn of day,
Together we will calmly wane.
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