Here Is Your Parents' Dwelling With Its Curtained Windows Telling Of No Thought Of Us Within It Or Of Our Arrival Here; Their Slumbers Have Been Normal After One Day More Of Formal Matrimonial Commonplace And Household Life'S Mechanic Gear. I Would Be Candid Willingly, But Dawn Draws On So Chillingly As To Render Further Cheerlessness Intolerable Now, So I Will Not Stand Endeavouring To Declare A Day For Severing, But Will Clasp You Just As Always - Just The Olden Love Avow. Through Serene And Surly Weather We Have Walked The Ways Together, And This Long Night'S Dance This Year'S End Eve Now Finishes The Spell; Yet We Dreamt Us But Beginning A Sweet Sempiternal Spinning Of A Cord We Have Spun To Breaking - Too Intemperately, Too Well. Yes; Last Night We Danced I Know, Dear, As We Did That Year Ago, Dear, When A New Strange Bond Between Our Days Was Formed, And Felt, And Heard; Would That Dancing Were The Worst Thing From The Latest To The First Thing That The Faded Year Can Charge Us With; But What Avails A Word! That Which Makes Man'S Love The Lighter And The Woman'S Burn No Brighter Came To Pass With Us Inevitably While Slipped The Shortening Year . . . And There Stands Your Father'S Dwelling With Its Blind Bleak Windows Telling That The Vows Of Man And Maid Are Frail As Filmy Gossamere. Weymouth, 1869.