To Mary (Mrs. Unwin).

By William Cowper

The twentieth year is well nigh past Since first our sky was overcast; Ah! would that this might be the last! My Mary! Thy spirits have a fainter flow I see thee daily weaker grow Twas my distress that brought thee low, My Mary! Thy needles, once a shining store, For my sake restless heretofore, Now rust disused, and shine no more; My Mary! For, though thou gladly wouldst fulfil The same kind office for me still, Thy sight now seconds not thy will, My Mary! But well thou playdst the housewifes part, And all thy threads with magic art Have wound themselves about this heart, My Mary! Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language utterd in a dream: Yet me they charm, whateer the theme, My Mary! Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, Are still more lovely in my sight Than golden beams of orient light, My Mary! For, could I view nor them nor thee, What sight worth seeing could I see? The sun would rise in vain for me, My Mary! Partakers of thy sad decline, Thy hands their little force resign; Yet gently pressd, press gently mine, My Mary! Such feebleness of limbs thou provest, That now at every step thou movest Upheld by two; yet still thou lovest, My Mary! And still to love, though pressd with ill, In wintry age to feel no chill, With me is to be lovely still, My Mary! But ah! by constant heed I know, How oft the sadness that I show Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, My Mary! And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, Thy worn-out heart will break at last, My Mary!