Classic Poem

O, LAY thy hand in mine, dear!
—We're growing old;
But Time hath brought no sign, dear,
—That hearts grow cold.
'Tis long, long since our new love
—Made life divine;
But age enricheth true love,
—Like noble wine.

And lay thy cheek to mine, dear,
—And take thy rest;
Mine arms around thee twine, dear,
—And make thy nest.
A many cares are pressing
—On this dear head;
But Sorrow's hands in blessing
—Are surely laid.

O, lean thy life on mine, dear!
—'Twill shelter thee.
Thou wert a winsome vine, dear,
—On my young tree:
And so, till boughs are leafless,
—And songbirds flown,
We'll twine, then lay us, griefless,
—Together down.