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

They say to me, thy clear and crystal eyes:

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

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

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

Be sweet, be still! My heart and soul despise

Except the candor of the animals of old,

All save that antique brute-like faith of thine;

Does not wish to reveal its black secret to you,

And will not bare the secret of their shame

Whose lulling hands invite me to long sleep,

To thee whose hand soothe me to slumbers long,

Nor its somber legend written with flame.

Nor their black legend write for thee in flame!

I hate passion; intelligence makes me suffer!

Passion I hate, a spirit does me wrong.

Let us love each other sweetly. Tenebrous Love,

Let us love gently. Love, from his retreat,

Ambushed in his shelter, stretches his fatal bow.

Ambushed and shadowy, bends his fatal bow,

I know all the weapons of his old arsenal:

And I too well his ancient arrows know:

Crime, horror, and madness! — pale marguerite!

Crime, horror, folly. O pale Marguerite,

Are you not, like me, an autumnal sun,

Thou art as I, a bright sun fallen low,

O my Marguerite, so white and so cold?

O my so white, my so cold Marguerite.