 | Forest buds, from the woods of Maine |  |
116
ALLIE.
'T is a bleak November night,
Fraught with storm and cloud and glow,
But the fire burns warm and bright
In my cosy little room;
I am a sitting here alone,
And the patter of the rain,
And the wind's complaining sound
Wake strange echoes in my brain;
Oh, if you were only here,
Allie, dear!
Fraught with storm and cloud and glow,
But the fire burns warm and bright
In my cosy little room;
I am a sitting here alone,
And the patter of the rain,
And the wind's complaining sound
Wake strange echoes in my brain;
Oh, if you were only here,
Allie, dear!
Shadows quiver to and fro
On the wall in seeming glee,
And ripe, red-cheeked apples glow
In the firelight temptingly;
Just across the heart-rug there
Is a most inviting seat,—
An old-fashioned easy-chair
And a cushion for your feet;
Oh, if you were only here,
Allie, dear!
On the wall in seeming glee,
And ripe, red-cheeked apples glow
In the firelight temptingly;
Just across the heart-rug there
Is a most inviting seat,—
An old-fashioned easy-chair
And a cushion for your feet;
Oh, if you were only here,
Allie, dear!
117
I can almost see you now
Sitting in that easy-chair
With a smile upon your brow
Such as only you can wear;
With your large, shy loving eyes
Saddened by no thought of care,
While the golden firelight lies
Crown-like on your shining hair;—
Ah, methinks you must be here,
Allie, dear!
Sitting in that easy-chair
With a smile upon your brow
Such as only you can wear;
With your large, shy loving eyes
Saddened by no thought of care,
While the golden firelight lies
Crown-like on your shining hair;—
Ah, methinks you must be here,
Allie, dear!
But the vision fades away;—
I am sitting here alone,—
And the firelight's fading ray
Shines a moment and is gone.
Vacant stands the easy-chair,
Fled is the illusion sweet,
But upon the window there
Still the beating rain-drops beat,
And I still wish you were here,
Allie, dear!
I am sitting here alone,—
And the firelight's fading ray
Shines a moment and is gone.
Vacant stands the easy-chair,
Fled is the illusion sweet,
But upon the window there
Still the beating rain-drops beat,
And I still wish you were here,
Allie, dear!
| Forest buds, from the woods of Maine | |