But—thou art cold!
I dreamed thou wert an angel sent to me,
With radiant countenance, and wings of gold
All glowing with the tints of yon warm sky:
But—thou art cold!
An angel sent to breathe upon this heart,
Crushed and still quivering with pangs untold.
To soothe its anguish with some heavenly art;
But—thou art cold!
No pain responsive moves thy snowy breast —