A little book of tribune verse A number of hitherto uncollected poems, grave and gay |
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THE SAME DEAR HAND. |
 | A little book of tribune verse |  |
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THE SAME DEAR HAND.
The bells ring out a happy sound,
The earth is mantled o'er with white,
It is the merry Christmas night,
And love, and mirth, and joy abound,
And here sit you and here sit I—
I should be happiest in the land,
For oh! I hold the same dear hand
I've held for many a year gone by.
The earth is mantled o'er with white,
It is the merry Christmas night,
And love, and mirth, and joy abound,
And here sit you and here sit I—
I should be happiest in the land,
For oh! I hold the same dear hand
I've held for many a year gone by.
It is not withered up with care—
It is as fresh and fair to see—
As sweet to hold and dear to me
As when with chimes upon the air,
On Christmas nights of years ago
I held the same dear little thing,
And felt its soft caresses bring
The flushes to my throbbing brow.
It is as fresh and fair to see—
As sweet to hold and dear to me
As when with chimes upon the air,
On Christmas nights of years ago
I held the same dear little thing,
And felt its soft caresses bring
The flushes to my throbbing brow.
Ah, we were born to never part—
This little hand I hold to-night,
And I—so with strong delight
I press it to my beating heart.
And in the midnight solemn hush,
I bless the little hand I hold—
In broken whispers be it told—
It is the old time bob tail flush.
This little hand I hold to-night,
And I—so with strong delight
I press it to my beating heart.
And in the midnight solemn hush,
I bless the little hand I hold—
In broken whispers be it told—
It is the old time bob tail flush.
December 25th, 1881.
| A little book of tribune verse | |