And calm was on the father’s face,
  And love was in the mother’s eyes;
She looked and listened from her place,
    In tender wise.

She did not need to raise her voice
  That they might hear, she sat so nigh;
Yet we could speak when ’twas our choice,
        And soft reply.

Holding our quiet talk apart
  Of household things; till, all unsealed,
The guarded outworks of the heart
        Began to yield;

And much that prudence will not dip
  The pen to fix and send away,
Passed safely over from the lip
        That summer day.

“I should be happy,” with a look
  Towards her husband where he lay,
Lost in the pages of his book,
        Soft did she say.

“I am, and yet no lot below
  For one whole day eludeth care;
To marriage all the stories flow,
        And finish there: 

“As if with marriage came the end,
  The entrance into settled rest,
The calm to which love’s tossings tend,
        The quiet breast.

“For me love played the low preludes,
  Yet life began but with the ring,
Such infinite solicitudes
        Around it cling.

“I did not for my heart divine
  Her destiny so meek to grow;
The higher nature matched with mine
        Will have it so.

“Still I consider it, and still
  Acknowledge it my master made,
Above me by the steadier will
        Of nought afraid.

“Above me by the candid speech;
  The temperate judgment of its own;
The keener thoughts that grasp and reach
        At things unknown.

“But I look up and he looks down,
  And thus our married eyes can meet;
Unclouded his, and clear of frown,
        And gravely sweet.

“And yet, O good, O wise and true! 
  I would for all my fealty,
That I could be as much to you
        As you to me;

“And knew the deep secure content
  Of wives who have been hardly won,
And, long petitioned, gave assent,
        Jealous of none.

“But proudly sure in all the earth
  No other in that homage shares,
Nor other woman’s face or worth
        Is prized as theirs.”

I said:  “And yet no lot below
  For one whole day eludeth care. 
Your thought.”  She answered, “Even so. 
        I would beware

“Regretful questionings; be sure
  That very seldom do they rise,
Nor for myself do I endure—­
        I sympathize.

“For once”—­she turned away her head,
  Across the grass she swept her hand—­
“There was a letter once,” she said,
        “Upon the sand.”

“There was, in truth, a letter writ
  On sand,” I said, “and swept from view;
But that same hand which fashioned it
        Is given to you.

“Efface the letter; wherefore keep
  An image which the sands forego?”
“Albeit that fear had seemed to sleep,”
        She answered low,