Prometheus Bound, and other poems/Inclusions
OH, wilt thou have my hand, Dear, to lie along in
As a little stone in a running stream, it seems to
lie and pine!
Now drop the poor pale hand. Dear, . . unfit to
plight with thine.
Oh, wilt thou have my cheek, Dear, drawn closer to
My cheek is white, my cheek is worn, by many a
tear run down.
Now leave a little space. Dear, . . lest it should wet
Oh, must thou have my soul, Dear, commingled
with thy soul?—
Red grows the cheek, and warm the hand, . . the
part is in the whole! . .
Nor hands nor cheeks keep separate, when soul is
joined to soul.