A Love Song of Henri Quatre
C
ome, rosy Day!
Come quick—I pray—
I am so glad when I thee see!
Because my Fair,
Who is so dear,
Is rosy-red and white like thee.
She lives, I think,
On heavenly drink
Dawn-dew, which Hebe pours for her;
Else—when I sip
At her soft lip
How smells it of ambrosia?
She is so fair
None can compare;
And, oh, her slender waist divine!
Her sparkling eyes
Set in the skies
The morning stars would far outshine!
Only to hear
Her voice so clear
The village gathers in the street;
And Tityrus,
Grown one of us,
Leaves piping on his flute so sweet.
The Graces three,
Where’er she be,
Call all the Loves to flutter nigh;
And what she ’ll say,—
Speak when she may,—
Is full of sense and majesty!