  TELL me, pretty one, where will you sail? How shall our bark be steered, I pray? Breezes flutter each silken veil, Tell me, where will you go to-day? My vessel’s helm is of ivory white, Her bulwarks glisten with jewels bright And red gold; The sails are made from the wings of a dove, And the man at the wheel is the god of love, Where shall we sail? ’Mid the Baltic’s foam? Or over the broad Pacific roam? Don’t refuse. Say, shall we gather the sweet snow-flowers, Or wander in rose-strewn Eastern bowers? Only choose. “Oh, carry me then,” cried the fair coquette, “To the land where never I’ve journeyed yet, To that shore Where love is lasting, and change unknown, And a man is faithful to one alone Evermore.” Go, seek that land for a year and a day, At the end of the time you’ll be still far away Pretty maid;— ’Tis a country unlettered in map or in chart, ’Tis a country that does not exist, sweetheart, I’m afraid! Translated from ThÉophile Gautier. |
|
