‘Ah, Harry!’ I cried, ’I shall lean on you! 
  ’Tis the purest joy to look up so high;
  You will teach me all that I ought to do;
  On your noble strength can my steps rely.

  I hope that you know I am very weak,
  Only a poor little thing at the best;
  But children can love before they can speak,
  And I hope that love will make up the rest.’

  Oh beautiful pathway, untouched by care;
  Oh you scattered roses on which we tread;
  You lead to a church with its holy prayer,
  And its Heaven-blessing over us shed!

  Nightingales singing an exquisite tune
  All the sweet music for me and for you,
  Saying my prayers by the light of the moon,
  Happy the prayers that are utter’d for two!

  Stars in the depth of a fathomless space,
  Summer-blue sky by no shadow o’ercast,
  Joy pointing on to a far-away grace
  Brighter than e’en the beneficent past;

  Trouble to measureless distances fled,
  Death too remote to be worthy a sigh—­
  Can there be any one sorry or dead? 
  Sorrow or death ’neath a summer-blue sky!

  Was there a moment we never had met? 
  Was there a time unexalted by him? 
  Shone the same lustre in suns when they set? 
  Sparkled the river with joy to the brim?

  Glitter’d the blue over heaven and sea? 
  Flutter’d the birds to a musical call? 
  Could he be happy unconscious of me? 
  And, without Harry, what was I at all?

  I stand on a rock where two rivers meet,
  With a life behind and a life before;
  And one is ebbing away from my feet,
  And the other is rising more and more.

  Ah, poor little maiden! ah, dear little wife! 
  Ah, days that are past and days that will come! 
  The past is nothing—­this only is life;
  I am going with him and am going HOME.

  And such a sweet pretty home as it is! 
  What shall I do with my exquisite bliss? 
  How can I ever be charming enough,
  Where rumpling a roseleaf will make the path rough? 
  How can I thank the great Father above
  For showing His child such abundance of love? 
  With Harry a home in a hovel were sweet,
  And this is a palace that lies at my feet.

  I look at the gardens spread out in the sun,
  Where every rosebud a prize might have won;
  Where lilies lift up tinted crowns to the skies,
  And clematis strike you aghast by their size;
  Where lawns smooth as ice tempt your feet as they pass,
  Though only a fairy should tread on such grass;
  And big forest trees on the slopes, spread afar
  Those branches that grander than anything are.