W. C. Scully - XVIII lyrics

A rosebud mouth, sealed fount of words unspoken, Thy kiss is as a sacrament. Soft hands That hold my heart, each dimple is a token Of conquest o'er the Future's widening lands! Bright smile, that from the sundawn seems to borrow Its rarest light, I dare not even pray That thou escape the shades of pain and sorrow, For flowers fade in every cloudless day. But, when the storm comes, mayst thou find sure haven Or strength to stand until its rage hath past, And, in the dark, may God's strong help be given, Though long the night, the day must come at last, And if my own d**h first be not decreed, Oh, may my breast thy shield be, at thy need!