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