F. Arvers
My soul its secret bears, to all unknown
A love eternal by a look conceived;
My cureless wound shall be to no one shown,
E'en she who gave it is the most deceived.
Ah! me, I live nigh to her unperceived
Though ever at her side, still quite alone,
And, when I die and all my days have flown,
Shall never aught have asked nor aught received.
But she whom God has loving made and kind
Will tread her quiet path, for ever blind
To love which fain her every step would bless.
Sweet maid! her heart is fixed on God above.
She'll read these lines I've written of my Love
"Who is she?" she will ask, nor ever guess.
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