'Lis'beth, because your lips are full of laughter,
And laughing you first woke the heart in me,
And laughing you will fairly break it after,
With the dear torture of your mockery,
I am afraid to tell you that I love you.
(I wonder - if I told her, would she smile?
Then would my heart grow faint with shame the while.)
'Lis'beth, because your eyes grow sometimes tender
With sorrow for this sad world's suffering,
And my wild hope, so pitifully slender,
Might seem to you a poor, pathetic thing,
I am afraid to tell you that I love you.
(If I could tell her, would she pity me?
Compassion would be more hard than laughter be.)
'Lis'beth, because your heart was made for loving,
And love would be exceeding rich in you,
And all life's length is but too short for proving
How deeply I do cherish you, how true,
I cannot keep from telling you I love you.
(I wonder - when I tell her, will she? - Nay,
I dare not speak it; 't is too sweet to say!)