Come, Patrick, clear up the storm on your brow,
You were kind to me once,--will you frown on me now?
Shall the storm settle _here_, when it from Heaven departs,
And the cold from without find the way to our hearts?
No, Patrick, no; surely the wintriest weather
Is easily borne, while we bear it together.
Though the rain's dropping through from the roof to the floor,
And the wind whistles free where there once was a door;
Can the rain, or the snow, or the storm wash away
All the warm vows we made in love's early day?
No, Patrick, no; surely the dark stormy weather
Is easily borne,--so we bear it together.
When you stole out to woo me, when labor was done,
And the day that was closing, to us seem'd begun,
Did we care if the sunset was bright on the flowers,
Or if we crept out amid darkness and showers?
No, Patrick; we talk'd while we brav'd the wild weather,
Of all we could bear, if we bore it together.
Soon, soon, will these dark dreary days be gone by,
And our hearts be lit up by a beam from the sky;
Oh! let not our spirits, imbittered with pain,
Be dead to the sunshine that comes on us then:
Heart in heart--hand in hand--let us welcome the weather,
And sunshine or storm, we will bear it together.
From the New England Magazine.