The Poet To His Wife.

("À toi, toujours à toi.")

[XXXIX., 1823]


To thee, all time to thee,
My lyre a voice shall be!
Above all earthly fashion,
Above mere mundane rage,
Your mind made it my passion
To write for noblest stage.

Whoe'er you be, send blessings to her - she
Was sister of my soul immortal, free!
My pride, my hope, my shelter, my resource,
When green hoped not to gray to run its course;
She was enthronèd Virtue under heaven's dome,
My idol in the shrine of curtained home.

Victor-Marie Hugo

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