The Wife-Blessed

By James Whitcomb Riley

I

In youth he wrought, with eyes ablur,
Lorn-faced and long of hair --
In youth -- in youth he painted her
A sister of the air --
Could clasp her not, but felt the stir
Of pinions everywhere.

II

She lured his gaze, in braver days,
And tranced him sirenwise;
And he did paint her, through a haze
Of sullen paradise,
With scars of kisses on her face
And embers in her eyes.

III

And now -- nor dream nor wild conceit --
Though faltering, as before
Through tears he paints her, as is meet,
Tracing the dear face o'er
With lilied patience meek and sweet
As Mother Mary wore.