Trothplight

BROUGHT her home, my bonny bride,Just fifty years ago;Her eyes were bright,Her step was light,Her voice was sweet and low.

In April was our wedding-day,—The maiden month, you know,Of tears and smiles,And wilful wiles,And flowers that spring from snow.

My love cast down her dear, dark eyesAs if she fain would hideFrom my fond sightHer own delight,Half shy yet happy bride.

But blushes told the tale, instead,As plain as words could speak,In dainty redThat overspreadMy darling's dainty cheek.

For twice six years and more I watchedHer fairer grow each day,—My babes were blestUpon her breast,And she was pure as they.

And then an angel touched my eyes,And turned my day to night,That fading charmsOr time's alarmsMight never vex my sight.

Thus sitting in the dark I seeMy darling as of yore,—With blushing faceAnd winsome grace,Unchanged, for evermore.

Full fifty years of young and fair!To her I pledge my vowWhose spring-time graceAnd April faceHave lasted until now.