Classic Poem

Dearest, I did not think four years ago,
When through your veil I saw your tears shine,
Caught your clear whisper, exquisitely low,
And felt your soft hand tremble into mine,

That in so brief, so very brief a space,
The all-seeing Ruler of our lot in life,
Would lay on you, so full of light, hope, grace,
The darker, sadder duties of the wife.

Fears, hopes and frequent toil, and constant care
For this poor frame, by sickness sore bested;
The daily tendance on the fractious chair,
The nightly vigil by the restless bed.

Yet not unwelcomed must this morn arise,
Though in less sullied beams it might have shone.
Strength of these weak hands, light of these dim eyes,
In sickness as in health, bless you, my Own!