They say to me, thy clear and crystal eyes:
   “Why dost thou love me so, strange lover mine?”
Be sweet, be still! My heart and soul despise
   All save that antique brute-like faith of thine ;

And will not bare the secret of their shame
   To thee whose hand soothes me to slumbers long,
Nor their black legend write for thee in flame!
   Passion I hate, a spirit does me wrong.

Let us love gently.   Love, from his retreat,
Ambushed and shadowy, bends his fatal bow,
And I too well his ancient arrows know:

Crime, horror, folly.   O pale marguerite,
Thou art as I, a bright sun fallen low,
O my so white, my so cold Marguerite.