And ever still my lightest touch has burst her eyelids closing;
So let her come to me.
They say she's coming in her sleep—a sleep they can not break;
Ay, let them call, and let them weep, in dull and droning fashion!
Her ear may hear their doleful tones an age and never wake;
But let me pour into its depth my words of burning passion!
Ay, let my hot and yearning lips, that long have yearned in vain,
But press her pure and sacred cheek, and wander in her tresses;
And let my tears no more be lost, but on her forehead rain,
And she will rise and pity me, and soothe me with caresses;