I have borne it--I have borne it.
Only never ask me How.

* * * * *

A LYRICAL INTERMEZZO (1822-23)

1[5]

'Twas in the glorious month of May,
When all the buds were blowing,
I felt--ah me, how sweet it was!--
Love in my heart a-growing.

'Twas in the glorious month of May,
When all the birds were quiring,
In burning words I told her all
My yearning, my aspiring.

2[6]

Where'er my bitter tear-drops fall,
The fairest flowers arise;
And into choirs of nightingales
Are turned my bosom's sighs.

And wilt thou love me, thine shall be
The fairest flowers that spring,
And at thy window evermore
The nightingales shall sing.