A LITTLE bed stands close to mine—
I reach it with extended arm—
And there the clust'ring curls entwine
A golden head, secure from harm.
And when my darling goes to rest,
But ere she seeks the dreamer's land,
Upon my hand are fingers press'd,
Their tiny tips within my hand.
Then, sweetly, as the melting strain
Of music from a spirit band,
Or soft dripping of the rain,
She lisps, "Please, papa, take my hand.
"It's dark, papa, I can not do
To sleep alone!" The angels stand
To guard her bed 'gainst ev'ry foe
Still baby lisps, "P'ease take my hand."
And even I, in time to come,
When greets my gaze the portal grand
Of that far-off eternal home,
May ask, "O Father, take my hand!"
When 'round about the billows roll
And beat upon the farther strand,
While dark'ning tempest veil my soul,
E'en I may ask, "O Father, take my hand!"
—Speed Mosby.