Classic Poem

Sing me a song to-night,
Not sad, nor yet keyed to mirth;
But a household lay, in a soothing voice,
As the cricket sings on the hearth.

No loud high-soaring strains,
When body and brain are spent;
But I long to listen, with half-shut lids,
To a song of sweet content.

Let the notes drop from your lips
Like summer rain from the eaves,
Or the dreamy tinkle of far-off bells
That comes through whispering leaves.

Let me hold your hand a while—
Your hand so firm and fine;
Its soft, warm clasp is a touch of peace,
And its pulses shall quiet mine.

Sing on, so soft and low;
Dispelled by the soothing strain,
Gone the heat from my throbbing brow.
And the ache from heart and brain.

Sing on; your breath at my cheek,
Your hands still clasping mine;
Your voice and your touch, my household bird,
Are sweeter and better than mine.