And Mildred who, without a thought
  Of glory in her week’s long task,
  This marvel of the week had wrought,
  Had earned the boon she would not ask,
  And won more love than she had sought.

  III.

  As two who walk through forest aisles,
  Lit all the way by forest flowers,
  Divide at morn through twin defiles
  To meet again in distant hours,
  With plunder plucked from all the miles,

  So Philip and his Mildred went
  Into their walks of daily life,—­
  Parting at morn with sweet consent,
  And—­tireless husband, busy wife—­
  Together when the day was spent,

  Bringing the treasures they had won
  From sundered tracks of enterprise,
  To learn from each what each had done,
  And prove each other grown more wise
  Than when the morning was begun.

  He strengthened her with manly thought
  And learning, gathered from the great;
  And she, whose quicker eye had caught
  The treasures of the broad estate
  Of common life and learning, brought

  Her gleanings from the level field,
  And gave them gladly to his hands,
  Who had not dreamed that they could yield
  Such sheaves, or hold within their bands
  Such wealth of lovely flowers concealed.

  His grave discourse, his judgment sure,
  Gave tone and temper to her soul,
  While her swift thoughts and vision pure,
  And mirth that would not brook control,
  And wit that kept him insecure

  Within his dignified repose,
  Refreshed and quickened him like wine. 
  No tender word or dainty gloze
  Could give him pleasure half so fine
  As that which tingled to her blows.

  He gave her food for heart and mind,
  And raised her toward his higher plane;
  She showed him that his eyes were blind;
  She proved his lofty wisdom vain,
  And held him humbly with his kind.

  IV.

  Oh blessed sleep! in which exempt
  From our tired selves long hours we lie,
  Our vapid worthlessness undreamt,
  And our poor spirits saved thereby
  From perishing of self-contempt!

  We weary of our petty aims;
  We sicken with our selfish deeds;
  We shrink and shrivel, in the flames
  That low desire ignites and feeds,
  And grudge the debt that duty claims.

  Oh sweet forgetfulness of sleep! 
  Oh bliss, to drop the pride of dress,
  And all the shams o’er which we weep,
  And, toward our native nothingness,
  To drop ten thousand fathoms deep!

  At morning only—­strong, erect—­
  We face our mirrors not ashamed;
  For then alone we meet unflecked
  The image we at evening blamed,
  And find refreshed our self-respect.

  Ah! little wonderment that those,
  Who see us most and love us best,
  Find that a true affection grows
  The more when, in its parted nest,
  It spends long hours in lone repose!