The Poet To His Wife

 ("À toi, toujours à toi.") 
 
 {XXXIX., 1823} 


 To thee, all time to thee, 
 My lyre a voice shall be! 
 Above all earthly fashion, 
 Above mere mundane rage, 
 Your mind made it my passion 
 To write for noblest stage. 
 
 Whoe'er you be, send blessings to her—she 
 Was sister of my soul immortal, free! 
 My pride, my hope, my shelter, my resource, 
 When green hoped not to gray to run its course; 
 She was enthronèd Virtue under heaven's dome, 
 My idol in the shrine of curtained home. 


 

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