Littell's Living Age/Volume 169/Issue 2184/Almond-Blossom

At last I draw the veil aside,
Come, darling, full of wifely pride,
          And see my finished work;
Lift up those cloudless eyes of thine,
Deep wells of happiness divine,
          Wherein no shadows lurk.

Look at the canvas. Dear, like thee,
My pictured maid is fair to see,
          Like thine, her eyes are blue;
Like thine, the clusters of her hair
Wave golden on a forehead fair;
          She looks, as thou art, true.

Like thee, she wears a robe of white,
Like thine, her smile, as sunshine bright,
          Doth all her face illume.
Thy perfect parallel, she stands
Loose-holding in her slender hands
          A branch of almond-bloom.

Ah, wife! that tinted almond-flower!
Dust thou remember that dark hour
          Of anguish, long ago,
When I, with all the world at strife,
Heart-sick of labor, tired of life,
          Was vanquished by my woe?

Dust thou remember how I spake
Rash words of God, and tried to break
          The spirit from the clay?
How now? Thy tears fall down like rain;
Thou wast the braver of the twain,
          Dear heart, on that dark day.

The cold spring twilight filled the room,
I saw thee standing in the gloom,
          Thy girlish cheek grown white;
The tears of pity in thine eyes,
Without a murmur of surprise,
          Or tremor of affright.

And in thine hand an almond-spray;
God gave thee words of hope to say
          To me in my dark hour;
I know not now what words they were,
I know I blessed thee, standing there,
          Holding the almond-flower.

And when the storm was overpast,
And I could meet thine eyes at last,
          Thy gentle hand laid down
As gage of hope, the almond spray,
So on life's dreadest, dreariest day
          I won love's golden crown.

And now the budding year doth bring
New hopes, like almond-flowers in spring,
          That deck the branches bare;
Foretelling summer days to come,
The blossom-time of heart and home,
          A perfect life and fair.

But lo! the picture — it is thine,
Love, let it be a sacred sign
          Of all thou art to me:
Far more than wife, far more than love,
And only God in heaven above
          Can pay my debt to thee!