10.08.2014, 13:28
THE ANSWER
WHY do I love thee? — ask, when night is done,
Why morning dawns ; ask any flower that blows,
Why from its dewy heart the perfume flows
When zephyrs woo ; ask why the gossamers, spun
By faery hands ere moonlit hours are run,
Shake all their threaded tears if but the rose
Stir in its dreams ; ask why green buds unclose
Their tender bosoms to the quickening sun.
Ah, who shall fathom life's old mysteries,
Or read the ancient riddle of the heart?
But this I know — whene'er thy gentle eyes
Look into mine, along my pulses start
Strange melodies, and I see thy soul that lies,
Virgin and white, in its own place apart.
WHY do I love thee? — ask, when night is done,
Why morning dawns ; ask any flower that blows,
Why from its dewy heart the perfume flows
When zephyrs woo ; ask why the gossamers, spun
By faery hands ere moonlit hours are run,
Shake all their threaded tears if but the rose
Stir in its dreams ; ask why green buds unclose
Their tender bosoms to the quickening sun.
Ah, who shall fathom life's old mysteries,
Or read the ancient riddle of the heart?
But this I know — whene'er thy gentle eyes
Look into mine, along my pulses start
Strange melodies, and I see thy soul that lies,
Virgin and white, in its own place apart.