Poems (Hooper)/Too Late
For works with similar titles, see Too Late.
TOO LATE.
Two hours a mother, one year a wife,She lies in the trance of departing life.
Her husband, beside her dying-bed,In bitterest anguish bows his head.
"Accurs'd," he mutters, "the fate that soldA lordly name for a woman's gold;
"That gave her hand where her heart was not,And darkened forever her wedded lot!
"Yet, though you have loved me not, my wife,I loved you ever, and more than life."
The dying heard, and the fleeting breathReturned; for Love was as strong as Death.
Over her cheek stole a tinge of red;Straight she arose in her dying-bed!
"Husband!" she cries, "let us bless the fateThat tells us the truth, though late, so late!
"I thought that I was an unlov'd bride,Wedded for wealth and sold to pride.
"Yet (closer, O husband, bend your brow!)I lov'd you long, and I love you now!"
She hides on his heart her paling face;He folds her close in a long embrace.
Slowly he lays her from off his breastBack to her long and her dreamless rest.
He bends and kisses the placid brow,Whiter than marble and cold as snow.
He whispers low, "The kiss now givenReturn to me when we meet in heaven!"
Alas! the secret of many a fateThese two words tell, "Too late, too late!"