WHO KNOWS?
I grant her fair, ay, passing fair,
As lovely as a budding rose;
But is there soul behind that face,
A beauty ’neath that outward grace?
Who knows—who knows?
Does light of love beam from those eyes?—
The love that in her bosom glows?
Or is the light that lingers there
Delusive, though it shine so fair?
Who knows—who knows?
Does that fair form a fairer charm,
A tender, loving heart inclose?
A heart whose tendrils, like the vine,
Would round the heart that loved it twine?
Who knows—who knows?
And should life’s sky be overcast,
And gathering clouds around thee close,
Should fortune frown and false friends flee,
Would that heart still cling close to thee?
Who knows—who knows?
Or is she, can she ever be,
As fickle as the wind that blows,
And veers as if it were at play,
Trifling with all who own her sway?
Who knows—who knows?
But why a prey to doubt remain?
Why halt ’twixt hope and fear?—propose.
She may be waiting till you dare,
To crown with love that beauty rare.
Who knows—who knows?
John Napier.
Printed and Published by W. & R. Chambers, 47 Paternoster Row, London, and 339 High Street, Edinburgh.
All rights reserved.
[Transcriber’s note—the following changes have been made to this text.
Page 676: du to de la—“l’ami de la famille”.]