AUNT ANNIE.
The old house has, for being sweet,
Some sweeter reason than the rose
Which, red or white, about the feet
Of many a nested home-bird grows.
Some sweeter reason than the rose
Which, red or white, about the feet
Of many a nested home-bird grows.
And sadder reason than the rain
On the quaint porch, for being sad,
(Oh, human pity, human pain!)
The old house, in its shadows, had.
On the quaint porch, for being sad,
(Oh, human pity, human pain!)
The old house, in its shadows, had.
I sat within it as a guest,
I who went from it as a wife;—
The young days there, though not the best,
Had been the fairest of my life:
I who went from it as a wife;—
The young days there, though not the best,
Had been the fairest of my life:
For love itself must ever seem
More precious, to our restless youth,
When hovering subtly in its dream
Than when we touch its nestling truth.
More precious, to our restless youth,
When hovering subtly in its dream
Than when we touch its nestling truth.
