Just You
Your name? Ah, no, ‘tis not your name,
Though it means much;
Some thousands might be called the same,
Yet not one touch
Of any other lips than thine,
On all this earth,
Could bring the same glad thrill to mine,
Or could give birth
To half the hopes that fill my heart
When you are by;
When we are near, or far apart,
No other’s eye
Could speak the language, dear, to me
That your eyes do;
‘Tis not your name I love in thee;
No, it’s just you.
No, it’s just you—your every way—
I know them all;
Your wind-blown, spun-gold curls astray,
The low, sweet call
Of your clear voice, like hidden springs,
As pure and sweet,
That lilts and laughs, and softly sings;
Then, in retreat,
Fades softly out and leaves me there,
Just me alone,
Heart-full of just a picture fair;
My own! My Own!
‘Tis not your name that sheds the glame,
Though that seems good;
For I—I’d love to change that name,
Dear, if I could.