“With all my heart,” said the young man, and without waiting for more pressing he seated himself on the trunk of a felled oak, and tuning his rebeck, presently began to sing to these words.
Thou dost love me well, Olalla; Well I know it, even though Love’s mute tongues, thine eyes, have never By their glances told me so. For I know my love thou knowest, Therefore thine to claim I dare: Once it ceases to be secret, Love need never feel despair. True it is, Olalla, sometimes Thou hast all too plainly shown That thy heart is brass in hardness, And thy snowy bosom stone. Yet for all that, in thy coyness, And thy fickle fits between, Hope is there—at least the border Of her garment may be seen. Lures to faith are they, those glimpses, And to faith in thee I hold; Kindness cannot make it stronger, Coldness cannot make it cold. If it be that love is gentle, In thy gentleness I see Something holding out assurance To the hope of winning thee. If it be that in devotion Lies a power hearts to move, That which every day I show thee, Helpful to my suit should prove. Many a time thou must have noticed— If to notice thou dost care— How I go about on Monday Dressed in all my Sunday wear.