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,