THINE is my all, how little when 'tis told
⁠Beside thy gold!
Thine the first peace, and mine the livelong strife;
Thine the clear dawn, and mine the night of life;
⁠Thine the unstained belief,
⁠Darkened in grief.

Scarce even a flower but thine its beauty and name,
⁠Dimmed, yet the same;
Never in twilight comes the moon to me,
Stealing thro' those far woods, but tells of thee,
⁠Falls, dear, on my wild heart,
⁠And takes thy part.

Thou art the child, and I — how steeped in age!
⁠A blotted page
From that clear, little book life's taken away:
How could I read it, dear, so dark the day?
⁠Be it all memory