  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. |
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