(Clear crystal eyes – I watch the question start)
- Be sweet. Lie still! This irritated heart,
That longs for animal simplicity,
Will not reveal its pact with Hell, nor the
Deadly legend written in flames, by Fate,
To you who lure me to my sleep. I hate
Even the thought of love – passionately!
Go gently, now. Concealed in some retreat,
Love bends the fatal bow in secrecy.
I know too well that old artillery:
Madness, crime, despair – oh, pale marguerite!
But are you not an autumn sun, like me,
My distant, listless, cold, white Marguerite?