At Last

At last, when all the summer shine
That warmed life's early hours is past,
Your loving fingers seek for mine
And hold them close-at last-at last!
Not oft the robin comes to build
Its nest upon the leafless bough
By autumn robbed, by winter chilled,-
But you, dear heart, you love me now.
Though there are shadows on my brow
And furrows on my cheek, in truth,-
The marks where Time's remorseless plough
Broke up the blooming sward of Youth,-
Though fled is every girlish grace