Yet why blame her? it had needed greater strength than she was given
To have gone against the current that so calmly flowed along;
Nothing fresh came near the village save the rain and dew of heaven,
And her nature was too passive, and her love perhaps too strong.

The great world of thought, that rushes down the years, and onward sweeping
Bears upon its mighty billows in its progress each and all,
Flowed so far away, its murmur did not rouse them from their sleeping;
Life and Time and Truth were speaking, but they did not hear their call.

Years flowed on; and every morning heard her prayer grow lower, deeper,
As she called all blessings on him, and bade every ill depart,
And each night when the cold moonlight shone upon that quiet sleeper,
It would show her ring that glittered with each throbbing of her heart.

Years passed on.  Fame came for Philip in a full, o’erflowing measure;
He was spoken of and honoured through the breadth of many lands,
And he wrote it all to Mildred, as if praise were only pleasure,
As if fame were only honour, when he laid them in her hands.

Mildred heard it without wonder, as a sure result expected,
For how could it fail, since merit and renown go side by side: 
And the neighbours who first fancied genius ought to be suspected,
Might at last give up their caution, and could own him now with pride.

Years flowed on.  These empty honours led to others they called better,
He had saved some slender fortune, and might claim his bride at last: 
Mildred, grown so used to waiting, felt half startled by the letter
That now made her future certain, and would consecrate her past.

And he came:  grown sterner, older—­changed indeed:  a grave reliance
Had replaced his eager manner, and the quick short speech of old: 
He had gone forth with a spirit half of hope and half defiance;
He returned with proud assurance half disdainful and half cold.

Yet his old self seemed returning while he stood sometimes, and listened
To her calm soft voice, relating all the thoughts of these long years;
And if Mildred’s heart was heavy, and at times her blue eyes glistened,
Still in thought she would not whisper aught of sorrow or of fears.

Autumn with its golden corn-fields, autumn with its storms and showers, Had been there to greet his coming with its forests gold and brown; And the last leaves still were falling, fading still the year’s last flowers, When he left the quiet village, and took back his bride to town.

Home—­the home that she had pictured many a time in twilight, dwelling
On that tender gentle fancy, folded round with loving care;
Here was home—­the end, the haven; and what spirit voice seemed telling,
That she only held the casket, with the gem no longer there?

Sad it may be to be longing, with a patience faint and weary,
For a hope deferred—­and sadder still to see it fade and fall;
Yet to grasp the thing we long for, and, with sorrow sick and dreary,
Then to find how it can fail us, is the saddest pain of all.