A poem by John Hartley

Love - love - love - love, -
A tiny hand in a tiny glove;
A witching smile that means, - well, - well,
Whether little or much its hard to tell.
A tiny foot and a springy tread,
Short curls running riot all over her head;
A waist that invites a fond embrace,
Yet by modesty girt seems a holy place;
Not a place where an arm should be idly thrown,
But should gently rest, as would rest my own.
An angel whose wings are but hid from view,
Whose charms are many and faults so few,
As near perfection as mortal can be,
Is the one that I love and that loves but me.
They tell me that love is blind, - .oh, no!
They can never convince a lover so;
Love cannot be blind for it sees much more,
Then others have ever discovered before.
Oh, the restless night with its pleasing dreams,
Sweet visions through which her beauty beams;
The pleasant pains that find vent in sighs, -
And the hopes of a earthly paradise
Where we shall dwell and heart to heart
In unison beat. Of the world a part
Yet so full of our love for each other that we
Shall sail all alone on life's troublesome sea,
In a charmed course, of perpetual calm,
Away from all danger, sccure from harm.

Ah, yes, - such is love to the maiden and youth,
That have implicit trust in each others truth; -
Such love was mine, but alas, alas!
The things I had hoped for ne'er came to pass.
But I thank the star of my destiny,
That guided a true plain woman to me;
That amid the bustle and worry and strife,
Has proved a good mother and faithful wife,
Though the fates did not grant me an angel to wed,
They gave me a woman for helpmate instead.

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