And trembling too—yet leaning on my breast.
In truth, thou art too soft for such rude shelter.
Look up! I come to woo thee to the seas,
My sailor’s bride! Hast thou no voice but blushes?
Nay—from those roses, let me, like the bee,
Drag forth the secret sweetness!”
Violet.
“Oh what thoughts.
Were kept for speech when we once more should meet,
Now blotted from the page; and all I feel