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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 been
Poorer than the humblest beggar
Who against your door at nightfall
Kneeling, asked for bread:
I have gazed upon your face
And have felt such fear oppress me
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