Your limbs, and your sweet lips grow chill and dumb,
You’ll wish for me.
You’ll long for him whose hands were oft denied
To pluck a rose lest they the bush pollute—
Yet he would come and stand a slave aside.
To grasp the bramble and the thorn uproot,
If you but wished for him.
He’d kiss your limbs the hidden briar had torn,
And bathe the wounds with Pity’s saddest tear;
He’d close your eyes that ne’er till death had worn