From hand to hand, the gift is passed,

Through fingers it is granted,

And when it goes from his to mine,

It leaves my soul enchanted.

It's not a gift of bows or lace,

Nor can it be unwrapped,

But when it's pass'd from him to me,

In passion I am trapped.

Should arrows seek to pierce me,

Should the heavens seek to smite,

The gift that he has given me

I clutch with all my might.

For in my grasp, I need none else,

No succor from above,

Yes, when his hand is clapsed in mine,

The gift he gives is love.

I do not often dream these days,

But if I ever do,

It’s not of grand, or chilling things,

My darling, it's of you.

I sometimes dream you’re next to me,

I sometimes dream you’re far,

But, darling, you are beautiful,

When in my dreams you are.

My darling, in my dreams you laugh,

And in my dreams you cry.

My darling, in my fleeting dreams,

It’s like you never died.