by: William Cowper (1731-1800)

      HE twentieth year is wellnigh past
      Since first our sky was overcast;
      Ah, would that this might be the last!
          My Mary!
      Thy spirits have a fainter flow,
      I see thee daily weaker grow;
      'Twas my distress that brought thee low,
          My Mary!
      Thy needles, once a shining store,
      For my sake restless heretofore,
      Now rust disused, and shine no more;
          My Mary!
      For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil
      The same kind office for me still,
      Thy sight now seconds not thy will,
          My Mary!
      But well thou play'dst the housewife's part,
      And all thy threads with magic art
      Have wound themselves about this heart,
          My Mary!
      Thy indistinct expressions seem
      Like language utter'd in a dream;
      Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,
          My Mary!
      Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,
      Are still more lovely in my sight
      Than golden beams of orient light,
          My Mary!
      For could I view nor them nor thee,
      What sight worth seeing could I see?
      The sun would rise in vain for me,
          My Mary!
      Partakers of thy sad decline,
      Thy hands their little force resign;
      Yet, gently press'd, press gently mine,
          My Mary!
      Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st,
      That now at every step thou mov'st
      Upheld by two; yet still thou lov'st,
          My Mary!
      And still to love, though press'd with ill,
      In wintry age to feel no chill,
      With me is to be lovely still,
          My Mary!
      But ah! by constant heed I know
      How oft the sadness that I show
      Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,
          My Mary!
      And should my future lot be cast
      With much resemblance of the past,
      Thy worn-out heart will break at last--
          My Mary!




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