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For thou art woman—with that word
Life’s dearest hopes and memories come,
Truth, Beauty, Love—in her adored,
And earth’s lost Paradise restored
In the green bower of home.

What is man’s love? His vows are broke,
Even while his parting kiss is warm;
But woman’s love all change will mock,
And, like the ivy round the oak,
Cling closest in the storm.

And well the Poet at her shrine
May bend, and worship while he woos;
To him she is a thing divine,
The inspiration of his line,
His Sweetheart and his Muse.

If to his song the echo rings
Of Fame—’tis woman’s voice he hears;
If ever from his lyre’s proud strings
Flow sounds like rush of angel-wings,
’Tis that she listens while he sings,
With blended smiles and tears:

Smiles—tears—whose blessed and blessing power,
Like sun and dew o’er summer’s tree,
Alone keeps green through Time’s long hour,
That frailer thing than leaf or flower,
A poet’s immortality.