Classic Poem

I know no use in life,
Dear Tom, for a “cotton” wife!

A bundle of burrs in lint!
Weak enough, on a hint,
To break your heart or—the mint!

A wonder of paint and paste!—
A wasp in worse than waist!—
Of a temper and special taste

That never were nurtured far
From the soul of a pickle-jar!

Ready to faint and die,
Tumbling over a-pale,
If “Marigold” moves an eye,
Or “Moss-Rose” tosses her tail;
A petulant four o'clock,
Perishing at five!
Lord, keep us under a lock
From wedding the like
When we wive!

Yield us a maiden sweet,
Ye meadows of paradise—
With your lilies about her feet,
And your violets in her eyes!
Whose brow is the mirrored calm
Of her clear soul's starry fire;
Whose breath is the very balm
Of the honey-bird's desire!

Not of the blooms that close
Ere the summer is over-past—
But a beautiful star that grows
More beautiful till the last.

And the pearlhood of girlhood lies
In her purity and truth;—
Ah! Tom, might we harvest the prize,
We could glean all our summers with Ruth.