Once more shall turn to lilies in thy clasp;
Rose-red for thee shall flush with happiness
The poor, pale cheeks, still white with sickening fear;
The tired feet sustained and strong shall grow,
Walking beside thee; nay, dear love, not yet;
For still they tremble, still I seem to need
Thy firm supporting arm around me thrown.
Fold me then, dearest, in thy close embrace;
Bear me across the treacherous, yielding sands,
To that far country which must needs be fair,