Which feed with gold delicious fruits,
  Kept by unguessed Hesperides,
  Or cool the lips of gentle brutes
  That breed and browse among the trees
  Whose wind-tossed limbs and leaves are lutes,

  The maiden free, the maiden wed,
  Can never, never be the same. 
  A new life springs from out the dead,
  And, with the speaking of a name,
  A breath upon the marriage-bed,

  She finds herself a something new—­
  (Which he learns later, but no less);
  And good and evil, false and true,
  May change their features—­who can guess?—­
  Seen close, or from another view.

  For maiden life, with all its fire,
  Is hid within a grated cell,
  Where every fancy and desire
  And graceless passion, guarded well,
  Sits dumb behind the woven wire.

  Marriage is freedom:  only when
  The husband turns the prison-key
  Knows she herself; nor even then
  Knows she more wisely well than he,
  Who finds himself least wise of men.

  New duties bring new powers to birth,
  And new relations, new surprise
  Of depths of weakness or of worth,
  Until he doubt if her disguise
  Mask more of heaven, or more of earth.

  Tears spring beneath a careless touch;
  Endurance hardens with a word;
  She holds a trifle with a clutch
  So strangely, childishly absurd,
  That he who loves and pardons much

  Doubts if her wayward wit be sane,
  When straight beyond his manly power
  She stiffens to the awful strain
  Of some supreme or crucial hour,
  And stands unblanched in fiercest pain!

  A jealous thought, a petty pique,
  Enwraps in gloom, or bursts in storm;
  She questions all that love may speak,
  And weighs its tone, and marks its form,
  Or yields her frailty to a freak

  That vexes him or breeds disgust;
  Then rises in heroic flame,
  And treads a danger into dust,
  Or puts his doubting soul to shame
  With love unfeigned and perfect trust.

  Still seas unknown the husband sails;
  Life-long the lovely marvel lasts;
  In golden calms or driving gales,
  With silent prow, or reeling masts,
  Each hour a fresh surprise unveils.

  The brooding, threatening bank of mist
  Grows into groups of virid isles,
  By sea embraced and sunlight kissed,
  Or breaks into resplendent smiles
  Of cinnabar and amethyst!

  No day so bright but scuds may fall,
  No day so still but winds may blow;
  No morn so dismal with the pall
  Of wintry storm, but stars may glow
  When evening gathers, over all!

  And so thought Philip, when, in haste
  Returning from his lengthened stay—­
  The river and the lawn retraced—­
  He found his Mildred blithe and gay,
  And all his anxious care a waste.

  To be half vexed that she could thrive
  Without him through a morning’s span,
  Upon the honey in her hive,
  Was but to prove himself a man,
  And show that he was quite alive!