26 THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE. 



Hope weaves no more her wild fantastic measure, 

 But wraps herself in memory's mantle gray, 

 And chaunts with quiet voice, truth's simple lay 



Of mingled pain and pleasure. 



Yet in my bosom joy doth still abide, 



Aye, joy as pure as ever earth has proved, 

 For am I not still loving and beloved? 



Still, dear one, at thy side ? 



The happiness we have together known* 

 The bitter tears we have together shed, 

 The gentle memories of our blessed dead, 



Cherished by us alone : 



These are the links that bind our wedded hearts, 

 These are the bonds that make me love thee more, 

 As years, like spent waves, die upon life's shore 



And youth departs. 



