OH, cleave more closely to my breast,
And I will closer cleave to thine:
Thy bosom is my sweetest rest—
Oh, rest thy weary head on mine!

Let storms around us rudely beat,
And on us pour the withering blast:
If we the storm together meet,
'Twill sweeter be, when overpast.

Let pleasures fade, and want assail—
Yet nought of murmuring or of care,
Within our bosom shall prevail—
For Love shall whisper quiet there.

Then cleave more closely to my breast,
And I will closer cleave to thine:
Thy bosom is my sweetest rest—
Oh, rest thy weary head on mine!