The Poet's Song To His Wife

HOW many summers, love,  
 Have I been thine?  
How many days, thou dove,  
 Hast thou been mine?  
Time, like the winged wind  
 When ’t bends the flowers,  
Hath left no mark behind,  
 To count the hours.  
 
Some weight of thought, though loth,  
 On thee he leaves;
Some lines of care round both  
 Perhaps he weaves;  
Some fears,—a soft regret  
 For joys scarce known;  
Sweet looks we half forget;—
 All else is flown!  
 
Ah!—With what thankless heart  
 I mourn and sing!  
Look, where our children start,  
 Like sudden Spring!
With tongues all sweet and low,  
 Like a pleasant rhyme,  
They tell how much I owe  
 To thee and Time!