My Father’s Bible

THERE is one book, far dearer than the rest,

Upon my treasured shelves: It is not bound

In costly skin or vellum, yet profound

Is the esteem and rev’rence in my breast,

As I now lift it from its wonted place,

To bless it first, and read it for a space:—

It gives me comfort now, though time was when

Fierce anguish smote my soul, as, all unseen,

The crumbled leaves I turned, and saw between

The crystal drops of sorrow once again

Which wrung my blessed father’s spirit then;—

But now I read it, ever so serene,

And close the Bible gently, when I’ve done,

And kiss its covers, too, when I’m alone.