To think of thee, my Hannah—
To sit and think of thee,
Is to my heart like manna,
Or balsam from the tree.
For, first, its tendrils feeding,
It gives them strength to cling;
And then, if pained or bleeding,
It soothes the wound or sting.
To thine, a fount of feeling
The warmest and the best,
'T is sweet to seem revealing
The secrets of my breast.
Of half its care and trouble,
My bosom, thus beguiled,
Feels every joy is double,
When on it thou hast smiled.
'T is dark and stormy weather—
Our first October day;
But we are here together,
Though thou art far away.
For still I feel thee near me—
I see thy soft black eye—
I fancy thou canst hear me,
And I thy sweet reply.
And yet, my friend, my dearest,
This moment, where art thou?
What envied eye is nearest,
To look upon thee now?
Is thine own Hannah present,
In spirit, still with thee?
And dost thou find it pleasant
To feel alone with me?
Then we are never parted!
Nor distance, place, nor scene,
The whole and faithful-hearted
Shall ever come between.
And when earth's changeful weather,
Its joys and sorrows cease,
O may we dwell together
In deathless love and peace!