The shadow of a willow-tree
  That wavers on a garden-wall
  In summertime may never fall
In attitude as gracefully
As my fair bride that is to be;—­
  Nor ever Autumn’s leaves of brown
As lightly flutter to the lawn
As fall her fairy-feet upon
  The path of love she loiters down.—­
O’er drops of dew she walks, and yet
Not one may stain her sandal wet—­
Aye, she might dance upon the way
Nor crush a single drop to spray,
So airy-like she seems to me,—­
My bride, my bride that is to be.

[Illustration:  (MADONNA-LIKE AND GLORIFIED)]

I know not if her eyes are light
As summer skies or dark as night,—­
I only know that they are dim
  With mystery:  In vain I peer
  To make their hidden meaning clear,
  While o’er their surface, like a tear
That ripples to the silken brim,
A look of longing seems to swim
  All worn and wearylike to me;
And then, as suddenly, my sight
Is blinded with a smile so bright,
  Through folded lids I still may see
  My bride, my bride that is to be.

Her face is like a night of June
Upon whose brow the crescent-moon
Hangs pendant in a diadem
Of stars, with envy lighting them.—­
  And, like a wild cascade, her hair
Floods neck and shoulder, arm and wrist,
Till only through a gleaming mist
  I seem to see a siren there,
With lips of love and melody
  And open arms and heaving breast
  Wherein I fling myself to rest,
The while my heart cries hopelessly
For my fair bride that is to be....

Nay, foolish heart and blinded eyes! 
My bride hath need of no disguise.—­
  But, rather, let her come to me
In such a form as bent above
  My pillow when in infancy
I knew not anything but love.—­
O let her come from out the lands
  Of Womanhood—­not fairy isles,—­
And let her come with Woman’s hands
  And Woman’s eyes of tears and smiles,—­
With Woman’s hopefulness and grace
Of patience lighting up her face: 
And let her diadem be wrought
Of kindly deed and prayerful thought,
That ever over all distress
May beam the light of cheerfulness.—­
And let her feet be brave to fare
The labyrinths of doubt and care,
That, following, my own may find
The path to Heaven God designed.—­
O let her come like this to me—­
My bride—­my bride that is to be.

HOW IT HAPPENED

I got to thinkin’ of her—­both her parents dead and gone—­
And all her sisters married off, and none but her and John
A-livin’ all alone there in that lonesome sort o’ way,
And him a blame old bachelor, confirmder ev’ry day! 
I’d knowed ’em all from childern, and their daddy from the time
He settled in the neighberhood, and hadn’t airy a dime
Er dollar, when he married, fer to start housekeepin’ on!—­
So I got to thinkin’ of her—­both her parents dead and gone!