Betrothal

Both your hands? . . . What mean they, dear?I, unworthy,—dare I claim you?Then, against the world, I hold you:Mine—forever mine!

Men have waked from dreams of joy:Teach me to believe this rapture!Lift your eyes! O my beloved,Let me read your heart!

Is it true? . . . Ah, me! those eyes!How divinely kind!—how tender!Doubt itself could not distrust them,Or resist their light!

Dear, without you, I have beenPoorer than the humblest beggarWho against your door at nightfallKneeling, asked for bread:

I have gazed upon your faceAnd have felt such fear oppress meThat I trembled. From this moment,Nothing fear I more!

For whatever perils come,Nothing henceforth can divide us;Neither follies nor ambitions—Neither joys nor tears:

Never can you go so farThat my love shall fail to find you;Seeking ever to deserve you,Upward striving still;

And though seas should lie between,I shall feel that you are near me:In the twilight and night-seasonI shall hear your voice.