So many people think heaven must be up yonder because they have never tried to find it here below.
You Sang to Me, Dear!
I.
You sang to me, Dear, in the morns far away,
When the birds of the spring sang the matins of May,
And the songs that you sang to me then were as sweet
As the whispers the daisies lisped low at your feet.
II.
You sang to me, Dear, in the noons far away,
When the fairies of joy sang the love-songs of May,
And the touch of your hand was as tender and true
As the longings of love in the dear heart of you!
III.
You sang to me, Dear, in the nights far away,
When the dews of the dusk kissed the rose-lips of May,
And the dews of your lips were as soft as the dew,
And your eyes were as bright as the stars over you!