Poems (Chitwood)/The Dowery

by Mary Louisa Chitwood

THE DOWERY.

Poor! darling, why I have a dowery
    No empress could buy;
Though her gems were like the sands on the sea-shore,
    Or stars in the sky.

My heart thrills with rapture to name it,
    A rapture divine;
Oh! it is not the price of a death-bed,
    This dowery of mine.

What is it? Well, love, sit beside me,
    Look on me and smile.
What is it? Be patient, I'll tell thee;
    Yes, after a while.

It is not a gem from the ocean,
    Of delicate hue,
Or diamond whose sparkle of brightness
    Out-shineth the dew,

Nor gold proven fine by the furnace,
    All yellow and bright;
Nor silver like yonder lake gilded
    By moonbeams to-night;

Nor houses, nor wide-spreading acres;
    Nor ships on the sea;
No, dearest, but I have a dowery
    More precious to me.

What is it? Be patient, I'll tell thee,
    Fair wife of my heart—
Words sweeter than waters of Hybla,
    That softly upstart.

Here 'neath the dark wings of the shadow
    Of our cottage caves,
I'll tell thee as I hear the waves ripple,
    And music of leaves,

I look with mine eyes over-brimming
    With glad tears above,
Feeling thanks for this most precious dowery:
    It is thy true love!