V

Kiss me good night, sweet minstrel, on the stairs! I love your lips, they're neither pale nor red, But like an after-glow, when day lies dead Upon the mountains. Do they say soft prayers, Those languid lips? to God, a God who cares, And gathers such dear follies thread by thread As each is woven in your mind, and shed Like gold spun silk upon His field of tares? You're silent! let it pass; who knows but you, So strong in weakness, may compel God's ear To listen for the smallest drop of dew That all our thunders would disdain to hear: And so, Sweet, if you pray, repeat anew To God, that while you sang I wept a tear!