Sonnet: To My Wife
by
The curse of Adam, the old curse of all,
Though I inherit in this feverish life
Of worldly toil, vain wishes, and hard strife,
And fruitless thought, in Care’s eternal thrall,
Yet more sweet honey than of bitter gall
I taste, through thee, my Eve, my sweet wife.
Then what was Man’s lost Paradise!–how rife
Of bliss, since love is with him in his fall!
Such as our own pure passion still might frame,
Of this fair earth, and its delightful bow’rs,
If no fell sorrow, like the serpent, came
To trail its venom o’er the sweetest flow’rs;–
But oh! as many and such tears are ours,
As only should be shed for guilt and shame!