WONDER 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!