To Mary (Cowper)

THE twentieth year is well-nigh past, Since first our sky was overcast; Ah would that this might be the last!
 * My Mary!

Thy spirits have a fainter flow, I see thee daily weaker grow &mdash; 'Twas my distress that brought thee low,
 * My Mary!

Thy needles, once a shining store, For my sake restless heretofore, Now rust disus'd, and shine no more,
 * My Mary!

For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil The same kind office for me still, Thy sight now seconds not thy will,
 * My Mary!

But well thou play'dst the housewife's part, And all thy threads with magic art Have wound themselves about this heart,
 * My Mary!

Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language utter'd in a dream; Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,
 * My Mary!

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, Are still more lovely in my sight Than golden beams of orient light,
 * My Mary!

For could I view nor them nor thee, What sight worth seeing could I see? The sun would rise in vain for me,
 * My Mary!

Partakers of thy sad decline, Thy hands their little force resign; Yet, gently prest, press gently mine,
 * My Mary!

And then I feel that still I hold A richer store ten thousandfold Than misers fancy in their gold,
 * My Mary!

Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st, That now at every step thou mov'st Upheld by two; yet still thou lov'st,
 * My Mary!

And still to love, though prest with ill, In wintry age to feel no chill, With me is to be lovely still,
 * My Mary!

But ah! by constant heed I know, How oft the sadness that I show Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,
 * My Mary!

And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, Thy worn-out heart will break at last.
 * My Mary!