 | The Village Churchyard |  |
142
SONG.
I love thee—I love thee!—O words of all words,
How they thrill through the heart-strings, the bosom's quick chords;
I love thee! at last I may fearlessly own,
That my heart and for ever is thine—thine alone,
I love thee! how long that confession hath hovered
Round these tremulous lips—whose fond tremours discovered,
That Truth which by silence was vainly suppressed,
Since that deep burning silence itself e'en confessed!
How they thrill through the heart-strings, the bosom's quick chords;
I love thee! at last I may fearlessly own,
That my heart and for ever is thine—thine alone,
I love thee! how long that confession hath hovered
Round these tremulous lips—whose fond tremours discovered,
That Truth which by silence was vainly suppressed,
Since that deep burning silence itself e'en confessed!
Ere while the light breath of a breeze might have stirred
This too sensitive heart, even the sound of a word,
Ah! a breath that had moved, not a roseleaf had shaken,
The spirit too prompt and too quick to awaken;
Ay! had tempested wildly this bosom's deep feelings,
That now finds repose in these raptured revealings;
I love thee—I love thee! my Only, my Own,
I love thee for ever—I love thee alone!
This too sensitive heart, even the sound of a word,
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The spirit too prompt and too quick to awaken;
Ay! had tempested wildly this bosom's deep feelings,
That now finds repose in these raptured revealings;
I love thee—I love thee! my Only, my Own,
I love thee for ever—I love thee alone!
I love thee! I love thee! O sound of all sounds,
They make our frail life overleap its dull bounds—
There's a music in them, that the clear cloudless air
Of Paradise only is worthy to bear;
Yet a music that makes ev'n our atmosphere chill,
With a passion of ecstasy, tremble and thrill;
I love thee, I love thee!—O words of all words,
How they throb through the heart strings, the bosom's quick chords!
They make our frail life overleap its dull bounds—
There's a music in them, that the clear cloudless air
Of Paradise only is worthy to bear;
Yet a music that makes ev'n our atmosphere chill,
With a passion of ecstasy, tremble and thrill;
I love thee, I love thee!—O words of all words,
How they throb through the heart strings, the bosom's quick chords!
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