Your eyes like crystal ask me, clear and mute,

They say to me, thy clear and crystal eyes:

"in me, strange lover, what do you admire?"

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

Be lovely: hush: my heart, whom all things tire

Be sweet, be still! My heart and soul despise

Except the candour of the primal brute,

All save that antique brute-like faith of thine;

Would hide from you the secret burning it

And will not bare the secret of their shame

And its black legend written out in fire,

To thee whose hand soothe me to slumbers long,

O soother of the sleep that I respire!

Nor their black legend write for thee in flame!

Passion I hate, and I am hurt by wit.

Passion I hate, a spirit does me wrong.

Let us love gently. In his lair laid low,

Let us love gently. Love, from his retreat,

Ambushed in shades, Love strings his fatal bow.

Ambushed and shadowy, bends his fatal bow,

I know his ancient arsenal complete,

And I too well his ancient arrows know:

Crime, horror, lunacy — O my pale daisy!

Crime, horror, folly. O pale Marguerite,

Are we not suns in Autumn, silver-hazy,

Thou art as I, a bright sun fallen low,

O my so white, so snow-cold Marguerite?

O my so white, my so cold Marguerite.