They say to me, thy clear and crystal eyes:
"Why dost thou love me so, strange lover mine?"
— Be sweet, be Still! My heart and soul despise
All save that antique brute-like faith of thine;And will not bare the secret of their
shame
To thee whose hand soothes me to slumbers long,
Nor their black legend written out in flame!
Passion I hate, and spirit does me wrong.
Let us love gently. Love, from his retreat,
Ambushed and shadowy, bends his fatal bow,
And I too well his ancient arrows know:
Crime, horror, folly. O pale Marguerite,
Thou art as I, an autumn sun brought low,
O my so white, my so cold Marguerite.
