SHE was fair, but not so fair
That others were nof lovelier there ;
Hers was not the fleeting power
Of a brief impassioned hour,
But the charm that grows more dear
With each slow revolving year.
In her eye of cloudless blue,
In her smile so sweet and true,
You might read a spirit made
For the sunshine and the shade ;
Keen alike in work and pleasure,
Yet with self-control and measure ;
Brave and buoyant, wise and gay,
On the smooth or rugged way ;
'Tis the type that wears the best,
Made for sympathy and rest.
Pinings for unreal things,
Morbid doubts and questionings,
All the weakness and the pain
Of the fever-stricken brain,
Turning from the things we see
To the things that cannot be,
Vanished in the healthy hue
Which around my past she threw,
And the sting of settled care
Passed away when she was there ;
For my life grew strong and brave
With the courage that she gave,
And the night at last has flown :
Hers the praise and hers alone.
William Edward Hartpole Lecky (1838-1903)
uit Poems (1891)
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