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!