From the French of Alfred de Musset

Were I to tell thee, ne'ertheless, that, troth, I love thee well, Blue-eyed brunette, blue-eyed brunette, thine answer who could tell? Love is the cause of many a pang—their source thou well can'st guess; No pity in him dwells, as thou must needs thyself confess: And yet, ah! me, thou would'st perchance chastise me ne'ertheless!

Were I to tell thee that, beneath six months of silence crushed, Long-hidden torments I have borne, and vows insensate hushed; Ninon, despite thy careless air, thou hast a searching eye, That, like a Fairy's, ere it come, what's coming can espy: "I know it all, I know it all," thou would'st perchance reply.

Were I to tell thee that I roam in sweet, delirious dream, Haunting thy footsteps so that I thy very shadow seem; A tinge of sadness on thy cheek, a quick, mistrustful glance,— Ninon, thou knowest well that these thy loveliness enhance: And thus, that thou believest not, thou would'st reply perchance.

Were I to tell thee that my soul hoards up the lightest word, That falling from thy lips at eve in our discourse I've heard; Lady, thou know'st that, when aroused to anger or disdain, Eyes, though of azure they may be, can still their lightnings rain: And thine perchance would flashing say, "We must not meet again!"

Were I to tell thee that by night I wake and think of thee, And that by day for thee I pray, and weep on bended knee, Ah! Ninon, when thou laugh'st, the bee, as well thou art aware, In hovering round thy rosy mouth, that 'twas a flower might swear: Were I to tell thee all, perchance the laugh would still be there

But nothing shalt thou know of this. I venture, all untold, Calmly to sit beneath thy lamp, and converse with thee hold. I hear the murmur of thy voice, thy balmy breath inhale; And thou may'st doubt me, or surmise, or laugh, I shall not quail; Thine eyes shall see no cause in me, their kindly look to veil.

By stealth at times, in secret joy, mysterious flowers I glean, When o'er thy harpsichord at eve enraptured I can lean, And list from thy harmonious hands what fairy accents flow; Or in voluptuous waltz, as round with flying feet we go, I feel thee in mine arms, a reed, that's waving to and fro.

When from thy side I have been kept by thronged saloons at night, And in my chamber draw my bolt that shuts the world from sight, A thousand reminiscences I seize upon, and hold In jealous grasp; and there, alone, like miser o'er his gold, To Heaven my heart, all full of thee, with greedy joy unfold.

I love; and I have learned to speak in cool and careless tone. I love; nought tells of it. I love; who knows it?—I alone! Dear is my secret, dear the pain with which I am oppressed; And I have sworn to love, without a hope on which to rest; But not without a taste of joy—I see thee, and am blest.

No! not for me! I was not born such bliss supreme to meet: To die within thy arms, or live contented at thy feet. Alas! all proves it—e'en the grief that fain I would dispel. Were I to tell thee, ne'ertheless, that, troth, I love thee well: Blue-eyed brunette, blue-eyed brunette, thine answer who could tell?