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Poem by Coventry Patmore
Suspicion's playful counterfeit Begot your question strange: The only thing that I forget Is that there's any change. Did that long blight which fell on you My zeal of heart assuage? Less willing shall I watch you through The milder illness, age? To my monopoly first blind When risks no longer live, And careless of the hand so kind That has no more to give, Shall I forget Spring like a tree, Nor boast, СHer honied cup Of beauty to his lips save me No man has lifted up!Т Mine are not memories that come Of joys that could not last: They are; and you, Dear, are the sum Of all your lovely past. Yet if, with all this conscious weal, I still should covet more, The joy behind me shall reveal The joy that waits before: I'll mind from sickness how to life You came, by tardy stealth, Till, one spring day, I clasp'd my wife Abloom with blandest health.
Coventry Patmore's other poems:
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