If thou lov'st me do not tell me,
Joy would make me rave,
And the bells of gladness knell me
To the silent grave.
If thou lovest not thy lover,
Neither veil thine eyes,
Nor to his poor heart discover
What behind them lies.
Be not cruel, be not tender;
Grant me twilight hope;
Neither would I die of splendor,
Nor in darkness mope.
I entreat thee for no favor,
Smallest nothingness;
I will hoard thy dropt glove's savor,
Wafture of thy dress.
So my love shall daring linger!
Moth-like round thy flame;
Move not, pray, forbidden finger--
Death to me thy blame.
Vavasor had gone half-way towards Mrs. Raymount, then turned, and now
stood watching Hester. So long was her head bent over his paper that he
grew uncomfortably anxious. At length, without lifting her eyes, she
placed it on the stand before her, and began to try its music. Then
Vavasor went to her hurriedly, for he felt convinced that if she was not
quite pleased with the verses, it would fare worse with the music, and
begged she would not trouble herself with anything so childish. Even now
he knew less about music than poetry, he said.
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