Normale Version: TO MY WIFE
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Thou mistress of my heart ! my chosen one !
To what shall I my love for thee compare ?
Not to the star that lights the upper air,
For that goes out when Night's career is run :

Not to the moon, which clouds, opaque and dun,
Obscurely hide — though beautiful and fair,
Marks of inconstancy its features wear :
Not to the naming, overheated sun :

Not to the trusty needle, ever pointing North ;
For, though attracted, it vibration knows.
Nor star, moon, sun, nor needle, can show forth
The steadfast love that in my bosom glows :
Bright is the flame — undying as thy worth —
Changeless as Truth, and chaste as wintry snows.

Helen, if thus we tenderly deplore
Our separation for a few brief days,
Yearning upon the much loved one to gaze,
With admiration and delight once more —

Lavish of sighs, and tears that vainly pour :
Ah ! what must be the misery that preys
Upon their hearts — ah ! what the woes that craze
Their brains, who pine in exile on our shore !

Parents from childreu are remorseless torn !
The infant from the mother ! and the wife
From the distracted husband ! — they are borne
Away in chains, no more to meet in life !
In vain they shriek, and supplicate, and mourn —
Tortures and blows shall quell Affection's strife.