Poetry Archives

Your gran’ma, in her youth, was quite
  As blithe a little maid as you.
And, though her hair is snowy white,
  Her eyes still have their maiden blue,
And on her cheeks, as fair as thine,
  Methinks a girlish blush would glow
If she recalled the valentine
  She got, ah! many years ago.

A valorous youth loved gran’ma then,
  And wooed her in that auld lang syne;
And first he told his secret when
  He sent the maid that valentine.
No perfumed page nor sheet of gold
  Was that first hint of love he sent,
But with the secret gran’pa told—
  “I love you”—gran’ma was content.

Go, ask your gran’ma, if you will,
  If—though her head be bowed and gray—
If—though her feeble pulse be chill—
  True love abideth not for aye;
By that quaint portrait on the wall,
  That smiles upon her from above,
Methinks your gran’ma can recall
  The sweet divinity of love.

Dear Elsie, here’s no page of gold—
  No sheet embossed with cunning art—
But here’s a solemn pledge of old:
  “I love you, love, with all my heart.”
And if in what I send you here
  You read not all of love expressed,
Go—go to gran’ma, Elsie dear,
  And she will tell you all the rest!