 | Flowers of the Night |  |
46
[Take but my song upon your lips, my love]
Take but my song upon your lips, my love,
And my faint hope that is at point of death
Some answering chord within your breast may move,
When it is made to soar on such sweet breath.
And my faint hope that is at point of death
Some answering chord within your breast may move,
When it is made to soar on such sweet breath.
Yes, breathe upon my poor words, passion-pale,
And all the fire that in them doth abide
Will kindle into flame, and all that tale
Of love be told whereof my song has died.
And all the fire that in them doth abide
Will kindle into flame, and all that tale
Of love be told whereof my song has died.
| Flowers of the Night | |