You think, perhaps, 'Ah, could she know How much I loved her!' Dear, I do! And you may say, 'Of this new awe Of heart which makes her fancies law, These watchful duties of despair, She does not dream, she cannot care!' Frederick, you see how false that is, Or how could I have written this? And, should it ever cross your mind That, now and then, you were unkind. You never, never, were at all! Remember that! It's natural For one like Mr. Vaughan to come, From a morning's useful pastime, home, And greet, with such a courteous zest His handsome wife, still newly dress'd, As if the Bird of Paradise Should daily change her plumage thrice. He's always well, she's always gay. Of course! But he who toils all day, And comes home hungry, tired, or cold, And feels 'twould do him good to scold His wife a little, let him trust Her love, and say the things he must, Till sooth'd in mind by meat and rest. If, after that, she's well caress'd, And told how good she is, to bear His humour, fortune makes it fair. Women like men to be like men; That is, at least, just now and then. Thus, I have nothing to forgive, But those first years, (how could I live!) When, though I really did behave So stupidly, you never gave One unkind word or look at all: As if I was some animal You pitied! Now in later life, You used me like a proper Wife. You feel, Dear, in your present mood, Your Jane, since she was kind and good, A child of God, a living soul, Was not so different, on the whole, From Her who had a little more Of God's best gifts: but, oh, be sure, My dear, dear Love, to take no blame Because you could not feel the same Towards me, living, as when dead. A hungry man must needs think bread So sweet! and, only at their rise And setting, blessings, to thine eyes, Like the sun's course, grow visible. If you are sad, remember well, Against delusions of despair, That memory sees things as they were, And not as they were misenjoy'd, And would be still, if aught destroy'd The glory of their hopelessness: So that, in truth, you had me less In days when necessary zeal For my perfection made you feel My faults the most, than now your love Forgets but where it can approve. You gain by loss, if that seem'd small Possess'd, which, being gone, turns all Surviving good to vanity. Oh, Fred, this makes it sweet to die! Say to yourself: ''Tis comfort yet I made her that which I regret; And parting might have come to pass In a worse season; as it was, Love an eternal temper took, Dipp'd, glowing, in Death's icy brook!' Or say, 'On her poor feeble head This might have fallen: 'tis mine instead! And so great evil sets me free Henceforward from calamity. And, in her little children, too, How much for her I yet can do!' And grieve not for these orphans even; For central to the love of Heaven Is each child as each star to space. This truth my dying love has grace To trust with a so sure content, I fear I seem indifferent. You must not think a child's small heart