Say over again, and yet once over again That thou dost love me. Though the word repeated Should seem "a cuckoo-song," as thou dost treat it Remember, never to the hill or plain Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain Comes the fresh Spring in all her green completed Belovèd, I, amid the darkness greeted By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt's pain
Cry, "Speak once more—thou lovest!" Who can fear Too many stars, though each in heaven shall roll Too many flowers, though each shall crown the year? Say thou dost love me, love me, love me—toll The silver iterance!—only minding, Dear To love me also in silence with thy soul