Yes, hold me closer, closer in thy arms,
And closer to thy beating heart, that I,
Secure in all that crowns a woman's lot,
May now, with thee, the bitter past defy!
Yet would I not call down an envious doom
On any of the future's sunny days;
'Twere ill in me to tempt the Fates, I trow;
But, rather, as one pleading, kneels and prays:—
"Stay but thy hand, O Time! and pitying grant
Us of thy sunny sheaves of Harvest Day;
Hours brimmed with sweetness and all glad with love,—
That, passing on, we scarce may heed the way
"That erst was strewn with sharpest stones and weeds;
So lead us gently, Time, we may not miss
Aught of Life's joy or of its brilliant light,
Or, missing, crave a fuller cup than this!"
Yes, hold me closer, closer; let me rest
My head, content, above thy throbbing heart.
Struggle and bay of laurel are the world's;
But this, my own dear Love, the better part!
Fame and Ambition—lo! do not they burn
With all the lurid light and gleam of earth?
Love, silent and benign, an influence sheds,
And heralds forth in life a higher birth!
Vain is ambition, yea, or conquered goal,
To bind my heart or satisfy me here.
Then hold me closer, closer to thee, Love;
For this I give it all—hold thou me near!