They say to me, thy clear and crystal eyes:

They say to me, your eyes, clear as crystal:

“Why dost thou love me so, strange lover mine?”

"For you, bizarre lover, what is my merit then?"

Be sweet, be still! My heart and soul despise

— Be charming and be still! My heart, which all things irk,

All save that antique brute-like faith of thine;

Except the candor of the animals of old,

And will not bare the secret of their shame

Does not wish to reveal its black secret to you,

To thee whose hand soothe me to slumbers long,

Whose lulling hands invite me to long sleep,

Nor their black legend write for thee in flame!

Nor its somber legend written with flame.

Passion I hate, a spirit does me wrong.

I hate passion; intelligence makes me suffer!

Let us love gently. Love, from his retreat,

Let us love each other sweetly. Tenebrous Love,

Ambushed and shadowy, bends his fatal bow,

Ambushed in his shelter, stretches his fatal bow.

And I too well his ancient arrows know:

I know all the weapons of his old arsenal:

Crime, horror, folly. O pale Marguerite,

Crime, horror, and madness! — pale marguerite!

Thou art as I, a bright sun fallen low,

Are you not, like me, an autumnal sun,

O my so white, my so cold Marguerite.

O my Marguerite, so white and so cold?