  On the Faubourg Saint MarÇeau Lay the mist this very morning, Mist of autumn, heavy, thick, And a white-hued night resembling. Wandering through this white-hued night, I beheld before me gliding An enchanting female form Which the moon’s sweet light resembled. Yes, she was, like moonlight sweet, Lightly floating, tender, graceful; Such a slender shape of limbs I had here in France ne’er witness’d. Was it Luna’s self perchance, Who with some young dear and handsome Fond Endymion had to-day In th’ Quartier Latin been ling’ring? On my way home thus I thought: Wherefore fled she when she saw me? Did the Goddess think that I Was perchance the Sun-God Phoebus? |
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