Page:Bohemian poems, ancient and modern (Lyra czecho-slovanska).djvu/117



ONDER not I sing, sweet Maiden! Love my soul doth rive, Ev’ry glance, thine eye that leaveth, Me a song doth give.

When the song itself developes From my inmost heart, Doth, methinks, an angel whispers From his hymns impart.

Words thus found me, I Bohemia’s Harp melodious try, And of love it sweetly soundeth, Hope and constancy.

There’s as many songs as glances, Thou their source dost know; Give me then a thousand glances! Maiden, say not No! G