They say to me, thy clear and crystal eyes:

Your eyes like crystal ask me, clear and mute,

“Why dost thou love me so, strange lover mine?”

"in me, strange lover, what do you admire?"

Be sweet, be still! My heart and soul despise

Be lovely: hush: my heart, whom all things tire

All save that antique brute-like faith of thine;

Except the candour of the primal brute,

And will not bare the secret of their shame

Would hide from you the secret burning it

To thee whose hand soothe me to slumbers long,

And its black legend written out in fire,

Nor their black legend write for thee in flame!

O soother of the sleep that I respire!

Passion I hate, a spirit does me wrong.

Passion I hate, and I am hurt by wit.

Let us love gently. Love, from his retreat,

Let us love gently. In his lair laid low,

Ambushed and shadowy, bends his fatal bow,

Ambushed in shades, Love strings his fatal bow.

And I too well his ancient arrows know:

I know his ancient arsenal complete,

Crime, horror, folly. O pale Marguerite,

Crime, horror, lunacy — O my pale daisy!

Thou art as I, a bright sun fallen low,

Are we not suns in Autumn, silver-hazy,

O my so white, my so cold Marguerite.

O my so white, so snow-cold Marguerite?