Autumn Sonnet

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

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

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

Except the candor of the animals of old,

Does not wish to reveal its black secret to you,

Whose lulling hands invite me to long sleep,

Nor its somber legend written with flame.

I hate passion; intelligence makes me suffer!

Let us love each other sweetly. Tenebrous Love,

Ambushed in his shelter, stretches his fatal bow.

I know all the weapons of his old arsenal:

Crime, horror, and madness! — pale marguerite!

Are you not, like me, an autumnal sun,

O my Marguerite, so white and so cold?