The Widow’s Wooer by Emma C. Embury
Yep, still sick…
The Widow’s Wooer
By Emma C. Embury
He woos me with those honeyed words
That women love to hear,
Those gentle flatteries that fall
So sweet on every ear:
He tells me that my face is fair,
Too fair for grief to shade;
My cheek, he says, was never meant
In sorrow’s gloom to fade.
He stands beside me when I sing
The songs of other days,
And whispers, in love’s thrilling tones,
The words of heartfelt praise;
And often in my eyes he looks,
Some answering love to see;
In vain—he there can only read
The faith of memory.
He little knows what thoughts awake
With every gentle word;
How, by his looks and tones, the founts
Of tenderness are stirred:
The visions of my youth return,
Joys far too bright to last,
And while he speaks of future bliss,
I think but of the past.
Like lamps in eastern sepulchers,
Amid my heart’s deep gloom,
Affection sheds its holiest light
Upon my husband’s tomb:
And as those lamps, if brought once more
To upper air grow dim,
So my soul’s love is cold and dead,
Unless it glow for him.
