Wert cold and chill
In thy death-trance lying,
I'd pluck thee still
From the midmost dying,
A cure for thine ill
With my heart-blood buying.

Thy cheeks' pale ashes
Should burn and glow,
Through lifting lashes
Thy soul should show
Redeemed from the cachés
Of under-woe.

​ E'en death's endeavour
Were vain to part,
For I'd hold thee ever
Against my heart,
Allaying its fever
And passionate smart.