* * *
The night is tedious as prose
And black as turpitude,
Dull as a guest who never goes
But forces me to brood.
The house is sleeping as I write:
A friend is drawing near.
I’m wide awake and wait all night—
Tomorrow he’ll be here!
* * *
My neighbour in a lively tone
Was telling us a story,
When past us came a village crone
With fingers bent and horny.
The story-teller turned his head,
Attentively and mutely
He watched her go, then softly said:
«Ah, she was such a beauty!»
* * *
Why drag the fact up every day
That you are younger?
To live with you and not go grey
Would be a wonder!
To censure me for being old
Is cruel, futile…
Come, need a wounded man be told
His wound is fatal?
* * *
For lullabies I feel no inclination,
To help you to sleep sound until the morn.
I would much rather come and take my station
Beside your bed, and there await the dawn.
Throughout the autumn night, so long in passing,
I’ll guard your peaceful slumbers as you dream,
Just as a maple shields a sleeping valley,
Or silent rock protects a mountain stream.
* * *
To dedicate such verses to you, dearest,
I hesitate—lest someone read these lines,
A man of greater worth, a suitor peerless,
Whose burning passion shall outrival mine.
To dedicate such verses to you, dearest,
I hesitate—lest someone else renew
His vows of love to her who is his dearest
In these fair phrases I address to you.
* * *
Grant me but one glance adoring,
Say one word—I’ll go
Headlong into fire or water,
Dash through hail or snow,
Scale a mountain at your bidding.
Plumb a precipice,
Mark the outermost meridian
For one parting kiss!