From the French of Alfred de Musset.

Were I to tell thee, ne'ertheless, that, troth, I love thee well,
Blue-eyed brunette, blue-eyed brunette, thine answer who could tell?
Love is the cause of many a pang—their source thou well can'st guess;
No pity in him dwells, as thou must needs thyself confess:
And yet, ah! me, thou would'st perchance chastise me ne'ertheless!
Were I to tell thee that, beneath six months of silence crushed,
Long-hidden torments I have borne, and vows insensate hushed;
Ninon, despite thy careless air, thou hast a searching eye,
That, like a Fairy's, ere it come, what's coming can espy:
"I know it all, I know it all," thou would'st perchance reply.
Were I to tell thee that I roam in sweet, delirious dream,
Haunting thy footsteps so that I thy very shadow seem;
A tinge of sadness on thy cheek, a quick, mistrustful glance,—
Ninon, thou knowest well that these thy loveliness enhance:
And thus, that thou believest not, thou would'st reply perchance.
Were I to tell thee that my soul hoards up the lightest word,
That falling from thy lips at eve in our discourse I've heard;
Lady, thou know'st that, when aroused to anger or disdain,
Eyes, though of azure they may be, can still their lightnings rain:
And thine perchance would flashing say, "We must not meet again!"
Were I to tell thee that by night I wake and think of thee,
And that by day for thee I pray, and weep on bended knee,
Ah! Ninon, when thou laugh'st, the bee, as well thou art aware,
In hovering round thy rosy mouth, that 'twas a flower might swear:
Were I to tell thee all, perchance the laugh would still be there
But nothing shalt thou know of this. I venture, all untold,
Calmly to sit beneath thy lamp, and converse with thee hold.
I hear the murmur of thy voice, thy balmy breath inhale;
And thou may'st doubt me, or surmise, or laugh, I shall not quail;
Thine eyes shall see no cause in me, their kindly look to veil.
By stealth at times, in secret joy, mysterious flowers I glean,
When o'er thy harpsichord at eve enraptured I can lean,
And list from thy harmonious hands what fairy accents flow;
Or in voluptuous waltz, as round with flying feet we go,
I feel thee in mine arms, a reed, that's waving to and fro.
When from thy side I have been kept by thronged saloons at night,
And in my chamber draw my bolt that shuts the world from sight,
A thousand reminiscences I seize upon, and hold
In jealous grasp; and there, alone, like miser o'er his gold,
To Heaven my heart, all full of thee, with greedy joy unfold.
I love; and I have learned to speak in cool and careless tone.
I love; nought tells of it. I love; who knows it?—I alone!
Dear is my secret, dear the pain with which I am oppressed;
And I have sworn to love, without a hope on which to rest;
But not without a taste of joy—I see thee, and am blest.
No! not for me! I was not born such bliss supreme to meet:
To die within thy arms, or live contented at thy feet.
Alas! all proves it—e'en the grief that fain I would dispel.
Were I to tell thee, ne'ertheless, that, troth, I love thee well:
Blue-eyed brunette, blue-eyed brunette, thine answer who could tell?