Married Folks

You married men—there's many in my view—
Don't think your wife can all wrap up in you,
Don't deem, though close her life to yours may grow,
That you are all the folks she wants to know;
Or think your stitches form the only part
Of the crochet-work of a woman's heart.
Though married souls each other's lives may burnish,
Each needs some help the other cannot furnish.
...
'Twas hard to see her give her life to mine,
Making a steady effort not to pine;
'Twas hard to hear that laugh bloom out each minute,
And recognize the seeds of sorrow in it.

—Will Carleton, Farm Festivals, The First Settler's Story.

Unperfected

When I bethink me on that speech whileare
Of Mutability, and well it weigh:
Me seems, that though she all unworthy were
Of the Heav'ns rule, yet very sooth to say,
In all things else she bears the greatest sway.
Which makes me loathe this state of life so tickle,
And love of things so vaine to cast away;
Whose flow'ring pride, so fading and so fickle,
Short Time shall soon cut down with his consuming sickle.

Then gin I think on that which Nature said,
Of that same time when no more Change shall be,
But steadfast rest of all things, firmly stayed
Upon the pillars of Eternity,
That is contrar to Mutabilitie:
For all that moveth doth in Change delight:
But thence-forth all shall rest eternally
With Him that is the God of Sabbaoth hight:
O thou great Sabbaoth God, grant me that Sabaoth's sight.

—Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queen, Mutabilitie VIII.

Falling

So oft as I with state of present time,
The image of the antique world compare,
When as mans age was in his freshest prime,
And the first blossom of fair virtue bare,
Such odds I finde twixt those, and these which are,
As that, through long continuance of his course,
Me seemes the world is run quite out of square,
From the first point of his appointed source,
And being once amiss growes daily worse and worse.

—Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queen, V. Proem 1.

Teach Me

Spirit of God, descend upon my heart;
Wean it from earth, through all its pulses move;
Stoop to my weakness, mighty as Thou art,
And make me love Thee as I ought to love.

I ask no dream, no prophet ecstasies,
No sudden rending of the veil of clay,
No angel visitant, no opening skies;
But take the dimness of my soul away.

Hast Thou not bid us love Thee, God and King?
All, all Thine own - soul, heart, and strength and mind.
I see Thy cross - there teach my heart to cling.
Oh, let me seek Thee, and, oh, let me find.

Teach me to feel that Thou art always nigh;
Teach me the struggles of the soul to bear,
To check the rising doubt, the rebel sign;
Teach me the patience of unanswered prayer.

Teach me to love Thee, as Thine angels love
One holy passion filling all my frame;
The baptism of the heaven descended Dove;
My heart an altar, and Thy love the flame.

— George Croly, via Mary's Musings.