the last gift.
85
Ah, dearest, see how pale and cold
Has grown this hand of mine!
No longer now it glows and thrills
Within the clasp of thine;
I go!—soon, where my dying head
Is pillowed with fond care,
No trace of me shall linger, save
This little lock of hair.
Has grown this hand of mine!
No longer now it glows and thrills
Within the clasp of thine;
I go!—soon, where my dying head
Is pillowed with fond care,
No trace of me shall linger, save
This little lock of hair.
I see thee not!—I faintly feel
The fast tears thou dost weep;
Kiss down my quivering eyelids, love,
Thus, thus, and I will sleep.
I go where angels beckon me,
I go their heaven to share;
Yet, with a longing envy, leave
This little lock of hair!
The fast tears thou dost weep;
Kiss down my quivering eyelids, love,
Thus, thus, and I will sleep.
I go where angels beckon me,
I go their heaven to share;
Yet, with a longing envy, leave
This little lock of hair!
