Like those of old, were heaven! whatever chance
Hath brought thee here, oh, ’twas a blessed one!
There—my loved lips—they move—that kiss hath run
Like the first shoot of life through every vein,
And now I clasp her, mine, all mine again.
Moore: Lalla Rookh.
Though high that tower, that rock-way rude,
There’s one who, but to kiss thy cheek,
Would climb the untrodden solitude