Sometimes I wonder if you guess The deep impassioned tenderness Which overflows my heart; The love I never dare confess; Yet hard, yea, harder to repress Than tears too fain to start. Sometimes I ponder, O my sweet, The things I'll tell you when we meet; But straightway at your sight My heart's blood oozes to my feet Like thawing waters in the heat, Confused with too much light. I hardly know, when you are near, If it is love, or joy, or fear Which fills my languid frame; Enveloped in your atmosphere, My dark self seems to disappear, A moth entombed in flame
Mathilde Blind (1841-1896)