  Every day I have a meeting With my golden-tressÈd beauty In the Tuileries’ fair garden Underneath the chesnuts’ shadow. Every day she goes to walk there With two old and ugly women— Are they aunts? or else two soldiers Muffled up in women’s garments? Overawed by the mustachios Of her masculine attendants, And still farther overawed too By the feelings in my bosom, I ne’er ventured e’en one sighing Word to whisper as I pass’d her, And with looks I scarcely ventured Ever to proclaim my passion. For the first time I to-day have Learnt her name. Her name is Laura, Like the ProvenÇal fair maiden Whom the famous poet loved so. Laura is her name! I’ve gone now Just as far as Master Petrarch, Who the fair one celebrated In canzonas and in sonnets. Laura is her name! like Petrarch I can now platonically Revel in this name euphonious— He himself no further ventured. |
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