  SHE is so pretty, the girl I love, Her eyes are tender and deep and blue As the summer night in the skies above, As violets seen through a mist of dew. How can I hope, then, her heart to gain? She is so pretty, and I am so plain! She is so pretty, so fair to see! Scarcely she’s counted her nineteenth spring, Fresh, and blooming, and young,—ah me! Why do I thus her praises sing? Surely from me ’tis a senseless strain, She is so pretty, and I am so plain! She is so pretty, so sweet and dear, There’s many a lover who loves her well; I may not hope, I can only fear, Yet shall I venture my love to tell?... Ah! I have pleaded, and not in vain— Though she’s so pretty, and I am so plain. BÉranger. |
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