Many, many years, For they seem many and my most of life, And well I could have linger'd in that porch, So unproportioned to the dwelling place, In the maydews of childhood, opposite The flush and dawn of youth, we lived together, Apart, alone together on those hills. Before he saw my day my father died, And he was happy that he saw it not: But I and the first daisy on his grave From the same clay came into light at once. As Love and I do number equal years So she, my love, is of an age with me. How like each other was the birth of each! The sister of my mother--she that bore Camilla close beneath her beating heart, Which to the imprisoned spirit of the child, With its true touched pulses in the flow And hourly visitation of the blood, Sent notes of preparation manifold, And mellow'd echoes of the outer world-- My mother's sister, mother of my love, Who had a twofold claim upon my heart, One twofold mightier than the other was, In giving so much beauty to the world, And so much wealth as God had charged her with, Loathing to put it from herself for ever, Crown'd with her highest act the placid face And breathless body of her good deeds past. So we were born, so orphan'd. She was motherless, And I without a father. So from each Of those two pillars which from earth uphold Our childhood, one had fall'n away, and all The careful burthen of our tender years Trembled upon the other. He that gave Her life, to me delightedly fulfill'd All loving-kindnesses, all offices Of watchful care and trembling tenderness. He worked for both: he pray'd for both: he slept Dreaming of both; nor was his love the less Because it was divided, and shot forth Boughs on each side, laden with wholesome shade, Wherein we rested sleeping or awake, And sung aloud the matin-song of life.