I feel each warm hand pressing mine, I meet each eye of light.
Oh these are precious seasons! they bring you back to me,
But morning dawns, and with it comes the sad reality.
I dare not trust my thoughts to dwell on blessings that were mine,
Or, “hoping against hope,” believe one ray of joy can shine
Across my path, so dreary now, that late was bright and gay,
But, meteor-like, hath left more dark the track which marked its way.
Yet I feel that thou art near me! my guardian angels thou,
Who fain would chase all sorrow and sadness from my brow.
For thou hadst strewn my pathway so thick with thornless flowers,