The Old Arm Chair
I LOVE it, I love it! and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?
I ’ve treasured it long as a sainted prize,
I ’ve bedewed it with tears, I ’ve embalmed it with sighs.
’T is bound by a thousand bands to my heart;
Not a tie will break, not a link will start;
Would you know the spell?—a mother sat there!
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.
Eliza Cook ( 1818–1889 )