Love, give me one of thy dear hands to hold,
Take thou my tired head upon thy breast;
Then sing me that sweet song we loved of old,
The dear, soft song about our little nest.
We knew the song before the nest was ours;
We sang the song when first the nest we found ;
We loved the song in happy after-hours,
When peace came to us, and content profound.
Then sing that olden song to me to-night,
While I, redlining on thy faithful breast,
See happy visions in the fair firelight,
And my whole soul is satisfied with rest.
Better than all our bygone dreams of bliss,
Are deep content and rest secure as this.
What though we missed love's golden summer time,
His autumn fruits were ripe when we had leave
To enter joy's wide vineyard in our prime,
Good guerdon for our waiting to receive.
Love gave us no frail pledge of summer flowers,
But side by side we reaped the harvest-field;
Now side by side we pass the winter hours,
And day by day new blessings are revealed.
The heyday of our youth, its roseate glow,
Its high desires and cravings manifold,
The raptures and delights of long ago,
Have passed; but we have truer joys to hold.
Sing me the dear, old song about the nest,
Our blessed home, our little ark of rest.