Give me your hands to hold,

For the night and the wind are cold,

And the year's growing sad and old,

So give me your hands to hold.

Give me your lips to press,

For the light of the moon grows less,

And the sky's full of dreariness,

So give me your lips to press.

Dear hands, dear lips, all mine!

Let the moon and her beams decline,

Let the night and the storm combine,

If your hands and your lips are mine.