Sunday Sonnet – To thee, with whom my best affections dwell by Alfred Tennyson

To thee, with whom my best affections dwell,
That I was harsh to thee, let no one know;
It were, O Heaven! a stranger tale to tell
Then if the vine had borne the bitter slow.
Though I was harsh, my nature is not so:
A momentary cloud upon me tell;
My coldness was mistimed like summer-snow;
Cold words I spoke, yet loved thee warm and well
Was I so harsh? Ah, dear, it could not be
Seemed I so cold? What madness moved my blood
To make me thus belie my constant heart
That watched with love thine earliest infancy,
Slow-ripening to the grace of womanhood,
Through every change that made thee what thou art