He loves me—not—he loves me—not—
(Plucking off the last leaf with fond joy.)
He loves me!
FAUST
Yes!
And this flower-language, darling, let it be,
A heavenly oracle! He loveth thee!
Know'st thou the meaning of, He loveth thee?
(He seizes both her hands.)
MARGARET
I tremble so!
FAUST
Nay! Do not tremble, love!
Let this hand-pressure, let this glance reveal
Feelings, all power of speech above;
To give oneself up wholly and to feel
A joy that must eternal prove!
Eternal!—Yes, its end would be despair.
No end!—It cannot end!
(MARGARET presses his hand, extricates herself,
and runs away. He stands a moment in thought, and then follows
her.)
MARTHA (approaching)
Night's closing.