Why?

WHY do I love you? I don’t know!
They say Love never gives a reason;
But that he has one I don’t doubt.
Do you? You do! That’s downright treason.

Not always, let me tell you, sir,
Love practiced such excess of prudence;
’T was once his custom to explain
The why and wherefore to his students.

And how to solve each puzzling case
He taught by rule and illustrations;
But skeptics, such as you, have made
Love shy of giving demonstrations.

Why foolish mortals love at all,
Why we two hold each other dearest;
How long ’t will last, and where ’t will end,
You ’d like to know, you precious querist?

You never will! I ’ll tell you that,
Yet still maintain my first assertion;
Love understands what he ’s about,
And blinds you, first, for his diversion.

Ah, why I love you! If I knew,
I would not tell you,—no, no, never!
For souls like yours were made to seek,
And mine to hide, you see, forever.

There ’s little, sir, you don’t find out,
But since that little makes life pleasant,
I think I ’ll keep it secret still,
And so keep you, too, for the present.