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| THE TWENTIETH year is well-nigh past | |
| Since first our sky was overcast; | |
| Ah would that this might be the last! | |
| My Mary! | |
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| Thy spirits have a fainter flow, | 5 |
| I see thee daily weaker grow— | |
| ’Twas my distress that brought thee low, | |
| My Mary! | |
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| Thy needles, once a shining store, | |
| For my sake restless heretofore, | 10 |
| Now rust disused, and shine no more; | |
| My Mary! | |
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| For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil | |
| The same kind office for me still, | |
| Thy sight now seconds not thy will, | 15 |
| My Mary! | |
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| But well thou play’dst the housewife’s part, | |
| And all thy threads with magic art | |
| Have wound themselves about this heart, | |
| My Mary! | 20 |
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| Thy indistinct expressions seem | |
| Like language utter’d in a dream; | |
| Yet me they charm, whate’er the theme, | |
| My Mary! | |
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| Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, | 25 |
| Are still more lovely in my sight | |
| Than golden beams of orient light, | |
| My Mary! | |
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| For could I view nor them nor thee, | |
| What sight worth seeing could I see? | 30 |
| The sun would rise in vain for me, | |
| My Mary! | |
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| Partakers of thy sad decline, | |
| Thy hands their little force resign; | |
| Yet, gently press’d, press gently mine, | 35 |
| My Mary! | |
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| 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! | 40 |
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| And still to love, though press’d with ill, | |
| In wintry age to feel no chill, | |
| With me is to be lovely still, | |
| My Mary! | |
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| But ah! by constant heed I know | 45 |
| How oft the sadness that I show | |
| Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, | |
| My Mary! | |
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| And should my future lot be cast | |
| With much resemblance of the past, | 50 |
| Thy worn-out heart will break at last— | |
| My Mary! | |
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