Rondeau
Was it ever my heart's joy to see
Manon sleeping in my arms? Below
Her pretty face, a perfumed nest of snow,
Her wakeful heart-beats gently turning slow.
Is it a dream that stirs me blissfully?
Just like an eglantine in which the bee
Is in its chalice folded,—long ago
Did I fold her in tenderness to me?
Ah, was it ever so?
But daylight comes: Aurora's scarlet glow
Scatters within the winds its Springtime glee.
Her comb in hand, pearls in her ears, I know
That at her mirror Manon forgets me!
Love without morrow always brings heart woe,—
Ah, was it ever so?
Manon sleeping in my arms? Below
Her pretty face, a perfumed nest of snow,
Her wakeful heart-beats gently turning slow.
Is it a dream that stirs me blissfully?
Just like an eglantine in which the bee
Is in its chalice folded,—long ago
Did I fold her in tenderness to me?
Ah, was it ever so?
But daylight comes: Aurora's scarlet glow
Scatters within the winds its Springtime glee.
Her comb in hand, pearls in her ears, I know
That at her mirror Manon forgets me!
Love without morrow always brings heart woe,—
Ah, was it ever so?
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