Sunday Independent April 7, 1912.
Sometimes I think if I could pray
’T would be that you might find each day,
This world a dream of bliss
A world of pleasure and of song,
where you, dear heart, could find no wrong,
Nor aught of bitterness.
I’d pray that God’s own angels bright
Might spread around your path their light,
And keep you as you are—
A being pure as babe unborn
And fresh and sweet as early morn
That glistens from afar.
Ah, me I’d pray that I might be,
Sure, when earth had ceased for me,
That I and my great love
Might leave behind this chequered life,
With all its turmoil, care, and strife,
And dwell with Thee above.