Clasp mine closer, little dear white Hand -
Clasp mine fastly, till it grows so cold 
All your tender pressures will be vain 
To awake an answ'ring touch again,
Till it lieth underneath the mould.

In Life's storm, and in Life's sun, 'tis you
Who have guided me throughout the land — 
Straightly - where the path was most obscure, 
Purely, for who touches you is pure —
Little Hand, O little loved Hand.

Paradise without you could not be.
I will wait outside till I behold
You appear.