Only page of title Moderate
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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.
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.
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.
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