O living will that shalt endure
 When all that seems shall suffer shock,
 Rise in the spiritual rock,
 Flow thro' our deeds and make them pure,
 That we may lift from out of dust
 A voice as unto him that hears,
 A cry above the conquer'd years
 To one that with us works, and trust,
 With faith that comes of self-control,
 The truths that never can be proved
 Until we close with all we loved,
 And all we flow from, soul in soul.------

 O true and tried, so well and long,
 Demand not thou a marriage lay;
 In that it is thy marriage day
 Is music more than any song.

 Nor have I felt so much of bliss
 Since first he told me that he loved
 A daughter of our house; nor proved
 Since that dark day a day like this; 

 Tho' I since then have number'd o'er
 Some thrice three years: they went and came,
 Remade the blood and changed the frame,
 And yet is love not less, but more;

 No longer caring to embalm
 In dying songs a dead regret,
 But like a statue solid-set,
 And moulded in colossal calm.

 Regret is dead, but love is more
 Than in the summers that are flown,
 For I myself with these have grown
 To something greater than before;

 Which makes appear the songs I made
 As echoes out of weaker times,
 As half but idle brawling rhymes,
 The sport of random sun and shade.

 But where is she, the bridal flower,
 That must be made a wife ere noon?
 She enters, glowing like the moon
 Of Eden on its bridal bower:

 On me she bends her blissful eyes
 And then on thee; they meet thy look
 And brighten like the star that shook
 Betwixt the palms of paradise.

 O when her life was yet in bud,
 He too foretold the perfect rose.
 For thee she grew, for thee she grows
 For ever, and as fair as good.

 And thou art worthy; full of power;
 As gentle; liberal-minded, great,
 Consistent; wearing all that weight
 Of learning lightly like a flower.

 But now set out: the noon is near,
 And I must give away the bride;
 She fears not, or with thee beside
 And me behind her, will not fear.

 For I that danced her on my knee,
 That watch'd her on her nurse's arm,
 That shielded all her life from harm
 At last must part with her to thee;

 Now waiting to be made a wife,
 Her feet, my darling, on the dead;
 Their pensive tablets round her head,
 And the most living words of life

 Breathed in her ear. The ring is on,
 The "wilt thou" answer'd, and again
 The "wilt thou" ask'd, till out of twain
 Her sweet "I will" has made you one.

 Now sign your names, which shall be read,
 Mute symbols of a joyful morn,
 By village eyes as yet unborn;
 The names are sign'd, and overhead

 Begins the clash and clang that tells
 The joy to every wandering breeze;
 The blind wall rocks, and on the trees
 The dead leaf trembles to the bells.

 O happy hour, and happier hours
 Await them. Many a merry face
 Salutes them--maidens of the place,
 That pelt us in the porch with flowers.

 O happy hour, behold the bride
 With him to whom her hand I gave.
 They leave the porch, they pass the grave
 That has to-day its sunny side.

 To-day the grave is bright for me,
 For them the light of life increased,
 Who stay to share the morning feast,
 Who rest to-night beside the sea.

 Let all my genial spirits advance
 To meet and greet a whiter sun;
 My drooping memory will not shun
 The foaming grape of eastern France.

 It circles round, and fancy plays,
 And hearts are warm'd and faces bloom,
 As drinking health to bride and groom
 We wish them store of happy days.

 Nor count me all to blame if I
 Conjecture of a stiller guest,
 Perchance, perchance, among the rest,
 And, tho' in silence, wishing joy.


 But they must go, the time draws on,
 And those white-favour'd horses wait;
 They rise, but linger; it is late;
 Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone.


 A shade falls on us like the dark
 From little cloudlets on the grass,
 But sweeps away as out we pass
 To range the woods, to roam the park,


 Discussing how their courtship grew,
 And talk of others that are wed,
 And how she look'd, and what he said,
 And back we come at fall of dew.


 Again the feast, the speech, the glee,
 The shade of passing thought, the wealth
 Of words and wit, the double health,
 The crowning cup, the three-times-three,


 And last the dance,--till I retire:
 Dumb is that tower which spake so loud,
 And high in heaven the streaming cloud,
 And on the downs a rising fire:


 And rise, O moon, from yonder down,
 Till over down and over dale
 All night the shining vapour sail
 And pass the silent-lighted town,