Canto XXXIX
Could we forget the widow’d hourAnd look on Spirits breathed away,As on a maiden in the dayWhen first she wears her orange-flower!
When crown’d with blessing she doth riseTo take her latest leave of home,And hopes and light regrets that comeMake April of her tender eyes;
And doubtful joys the father move,And tears are on the mother’s face,As parting with a long embraceShe enters other realms of love;
Her office there to rear, to teach,Becoming as is meet and fitA link among the days, to knitThe generations each with each;
And, doubtless, unto thee is givenA life that bears immortal fruitIn such great offices as suitThe full-grown energies of heaven.
Ay me, the difference I discern!How often shall her old firesideBe cheer’d with tidings of the bride,How often she herself return,
And tell them all they would have told,And bring her babe, and make her boast,Till even those that miss’d her mostShall count new things as dear as old:
But thou and I have shaken hands,Till growing winters lay me low;My paths are in the fields I know,And thine in undiscover’d lands.