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!