With thy rich beauty’s dower.
I see thee once again, my dove!
Thy face all radiant with love—
Thy parted rose-bud lips—they move—
Oh! will they never speak?
I list in vain, my warbling bird;
There gushes forth no loving word,
And tears steal down my cheek.
Thou puttest up thy month to kiss;
My heart is thrilled with wildest bliss—