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Why, this is love indeed ! ...

Ay, true, the feeling Which fills me, terrible and jealous, truly Love, - which is ever sad amid its transports ! Love, - and yet, strangely, not a selfish passion ! I for your joy would gladly lay mine own down, - E'en though you never were to know it, - never ! - If but at times I might - far off and lonely, - Hear some gay echo of the joy I bought you ! Each glance of thine awakes in me a virtue, - A novel, unknown valour. Dost begin, sweet, To understand ? So late, dost understand me ? Feel'st thou my soul, here, through the darkness mounting ? Too fair the night ! Too fair, too fair the moment ! That I should speak thus, and that you should hearken ! Too fair ! In moments when my hopes rose proudest, I never hoped such guerdon. Nought is left me But to die now ! Have words of mine the power To make you tremble, - throned there in the branches ? Ay, like a leaf amongst the leaves, you tremble ! You tremble ! For I feel, - an if you will it, Or will it not, - your hand's beloved trembling Thrill through the branches, down your sprays of jasmine :