SONGS OF LA MOUCHE
When I am old it may be I shall sit,
The sober guardian of a merry throng,
Where one will praise your passion, one your wit,
And one the flood of your melodious song.
The sober guardian of a merry throng,
Where one will praise your passion, one your wit,
And one the flood of your melodious song.
Some tender maid will then about me fling
Soft arms, and nestling, whisper in my ear,
"He is my poet, for he knows each thing
My lover loves to say and I to hear."
Soft arms, and nestling, whisper in my ear,
"He is my poet, for he knows each thing
My lover loves to say and I to hear."
But I shall silent sit, with downcast eyes,
Intent upon my toil, with lips compressed,
Fearing lest she, by love grown overwise,
Divine the kindred tumult in my breast.
Intent upon my toil, with lips compressed,
Fearing lest she, by love grown overwise,
Divine the kindred tumult in my breast.
Paris, 1855.
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