Which bound thy wounds with gentle band;
That hand as white as sculptor’s stone,—
It must not linger in thine own.
It is more dangerous by far
Than angry Turkish hands last year,
In Bender, callous with the spear
And cimeter, and many a scar.
Those lips so fresh in changeless red,
Which only whisper when they ope
In spirit-lays of trust and hope,—