tho’ i am slow of speech, it matters not,

for this i know you feel and understand.

tho’ break i at your nearness, yet i draw apart,

with wonder at the touches of your hand.

your eager eyes, so near my drooping lids

appraise my flushes, and you understand

how fain i am to go, yet do draw near,

and tremble at the touches of your hands.

tho’ death should come and seal my eyelids shut,

and tho’ i tremble at his cold commands,

i could be drawn away e’en from the tomb, methinks

if then, dear, you would touch me with your hands.