 | The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth |  |
174
OH SAY, CAN THIS BE LOVE?
Why does my heart so strangely start,
Each pulse so wildly play?
Why can not willing lips impart
What feeling bids them say;—
Cease, busy heart!—Can this be love?
Why do n't the trembler rest?
Why does it throb as if a dove
Were caged within my breast?
'T is not the throb of anguish—
It can not fatal prove—
And yet I sigh and languish!
Oh say, can this be love?
Each pulse so wildly play?
Why can not willing lips impart
What feeling bids them say;—
Cease, busy heart!—Can this be love?
Why do n't the trembler rest?
Why does it throb as if a dove
Were caged within my breast?
'T is not the throb of anguish—
It can not fatal prove—
And yet I sigh and languish!
Oh say, can this be love?
Cease, busy heart!—Why throbs it so,
With such an anxious thrill?
It seems to have a fever's glow,
And yet I am not ill!
Warm on my cheek I feel the flame,
Its light illumes my eye;
Still, if my lips attempt the name,
'T is whispered in a sigh.
'T is not the sigh of anguish—
So that can nothing prove,
And yet I daily languish—
Oh say, can this be love?
With such an anxious thrill?
It seems to have a fever's glow,
And yet I am not ill!
Warm on my cheek I feel the flame,
Its light illumes my eye;
Still, if my lips attempt the name,
'T is whispered in a sigh.
175
So that can nothing prove,
And yet I daily languish—
Oh say, can this be love?
| The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth | |