To my Absent Husband

MY home—how desolate to-nightThe parlor and the hall!Alas! I do believe my heartMore desolate than all;For everything I try to doSeems useless, just like play,And everything perplexes, too,When, dearest, you're away.

The neighbors call; I smile and talk,And while away the hours,And sometimes, too, I listless walkAlone amid the flowers;I take my work and try to sew,But as I said before,Tis all in vain, for you must knowI miss you more and more.

Last night in dreams I gathered flowers,And bound them for your sake;The world seemed like Elysian bowers—How dreadful to awake,And mope through a long autumn day;A blank you know I callThe time I spend when you're away,And this is not quite all:

There's no one calls me beautiful,My mirror's silent, too;How strange this great discoveryShould have been made by you!Excuse me, dearest, if I doubtYour taste so very pure;The beautiful I can't find out—'Tis very strange, I'm sure.

The world is full of mystery,And O! this love is one;Its strange and wondrous historyIs scarcely yet begun.All that we love is beautiful,Experience teaches this;The simplest thing sometimes has causedMe ecstasy of bliss.

Now as I wander round, and viewEach gift, however smallOr trifling, if twas brought by you,What joy does it recall!And every tender word and tone,Which did my bosom thrillLong years ago, now I'm alone,They make me happy still.

For with a generous heart and handThe fairest gifts you strewAround my home, from sea and land—What more can mortal do?It always makes me feel that ICan never half repayThe many kindnesses, my love,You scatter o'er my way.

How many hours of happinessThere are in this brief life,To those who truly realizeThe sacred name of wife!Now, dearest, you will smile to seeI've tried to poetize;When you return, our home will beAn earthly paradise.