And yet, thou, quiet at my side, asleep
Hast thus me graced. Thine own sweet breath,
Thy fairest face so still, but not as death,
As once I thought the only link to keep
Us ever joined would be. So dark, so deep
Would be our misery; our fate, beneath
A cruel, unblinking sky, would us bequeath,
Or God should grace us, but to weep;
For dreams forsaken, squandered; and to those
From which we shrank, unbidden, with resolve,
With fear, or anger; yet our lives revolve
Around the one, and only one, we chose.
Though only death was certain, dearest wife,
‘Tis better still that it began with life.