Бейард Тейлор (Bayard Taylor)

To M. T.

THOUGH thy constant love I share,
  Yet its gift is rarer;
In my youth I thought thee fair:
  Thou art older and fairer!

Full of more than young delight        
  Now day and night are;
For the presence, then so bright,
  Is closer, brighter.

In the haste of youth we miss
  Its best of blisses:        
Sweeter than the stolen kiss
  Are the granted kisses.

Dearer than the words that hide
  The love abiding,
Are the words that fondly chide,        
  When love needs chiding.

Higher than the perfect song
  For which love longeth,
Is the tender fear of wrong,
  That never wrongeth.        

She whom youth alone makes dear
  May awhile seem nearer:
Thou art mine so many a year,
  The older, the dearer!

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