Your eager eyes, so near my drooping lids Appraise my flushes, and you understand How fain I am to go, yet do draw near, And tremble at the touches of your hands.
Tho’ death should come and seal my eyelids shut, And tho’ I tremble at his cold commands, I could be drawn away e’en from the tomb, methinks If then, dear, you would touch me with your hands.
Tho’ you’re a heathen to the core And cause him untold pain, He knows everything about you But loves you just the same.
You need not always seek him For he’s often seeking you. He has a welcome for the stranger But a warmer heart for you.
He is rather scarce on talking But at listening he is good. You love to be around him But respect his solicitude.
He is tactful of your failings, Well acquainted with your whim; And there’s nothing in this wide, wide world You would not do for him.
The summer sweets have faded, The hedge, the vine, and briar, Come, put your hand in mine, my friend, Draw closer to the fire.
From footstools let us view the heights To which great minds aspire; Here’s Riley, Keats and Emerson, Draw closer to the fire.
A brave refrain from unknown bards And Byron’s brave satire, Frank Stanton’s tears and tenderness, Draw closer to the fire.
Tho’ cold the winds and fierce the blast, And thwarted our heart’s desire, We’ve Robert Frost to cheer the hearth, Draw closer to the fire.
Give me your hand, my steadfast friend; The words that friends require Stay with me thru the dying year, Draw closer to the fire.
Love is a magnetism That enables two people To see one another as No one else can see them, A compelling unresisting element Drawing them into each other’s arms. Love is an unselfish devotion, Giving service without reward, Sacrifice without compensation, Suffering without alleviation. It is a power, a force, The fundamental principle of life, Without which, the mere act of living Becomes a farce and a mockery. Love is the foundation of every Unselfish act, in this grey old world. It is the rosy amber hearthstone Of earth’s flaming paradise, and A stepping stone to a better world called heaven.
End of Project Gutenberg's Rain and roses, by Jeannette Fraser Henshall