And now it’s three, and as I lie,
From Notre Dame to St. Denis
The bells of Paris chime to me;
“You’re young,” they say, “and strong and free.”
I do not turn with sighs and groans
To ease my limbs, to rest my bones,
As if my bed were stuffed with stones,
No peevish murmur tips my tongue—
Ah no! for every sound upflung
Says: “Lad, you’re free and strong and young.”
And so beneath the sheet’s caress
My body purrs with happiness;
Joy bubbles in my veins…. Ah yes,
My very blood that leaps along
Is chiming in a joyous song,
Because I’m young and free and strong.
Maybe it is the springtide. I am so happy I am afraid. The sense of living fills me with exultation. I want to sing, to dance; I am dithyrambic with delight.
I think the moon must be to blame:
It fills the room with fairy flame;
It paints the wall, it seems to pour
A dappled flood upon the floor.
I rise and through the window stare…
Ye gods! how marvelously fair!
From Montrouge to the Martyr’s Hill,
