A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/Qu'Aimez-Vous? (Charles Dovalle)
QU'AIMEZ-VOUS?
I love a dark eye 'neath a pencilled brow,
On a white forehead I love raven hair;
And you have long black hair, you must allow,
O'er a white front, and where's the jet would dare
With such an eye compare?
I love a supple figure that with grace
Bends on a sofa: idle all the day;
Have you e'er thought how in your 'customed place
You bend above a book? Not idle? nay,
Your occupation, pray?
I love a pained and melancholy look,
A throbbing heart, and eyes half-closed for tears,
And heavy sighs. An odd choice? Then, O book,
Relate some tale of lovers' griefs and fears,
And lo! The odd appears!
I love to find a compound made of joy
And reverie, and languor, deftly blent,
Whoever has it may my heart decoy;
Smile on, but say to whom this gift is lent,
And tell me who is meant!
Sometimes a word, a dream, a passing thought
Effaces from your cheek the colour pale;
What marvels by a changing hue is wrought!
Why beats my heart to see the red prevail?
What makes mine eyesight fail?
Comes a caprice half-shadowed, or a whim,
And off you dart, no bird is half so shy;
I love a thought half-shadowed, doubtful, dim,
I love the place to which you bid good-bye,
And that to which you fly.
An angel, fair as you are, just the same,
Of whom the voice as tender is and true,
Who also smiles, who bears your very name,
In dreams whom often in the night I view,
I deeply love . . . . and you?