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TO NINON, by             Poem Explanation         Poet's Biography
First Line: If I should dare my passion to reveal
Last Line: Who knows, adored one, what you might reply?
Subject(s): Charm; Love; Love - Unrequited


If I should dare my passion to reveal,
What would your answer be, blue eyed brunette?
You know what pain Love's victims ever feel;
E'en you your pity cannot all conceal—
Still, you would doubtless make me feel regret.

Were I to say that silent I have pined
Six weary months with all a lover's woe,
Ninon, your careless subtlety of mind
May, like a witch, my secret have divined,
And you, perchance would answer me, "I know."

Were I the pleasing madness to confess
That makes me, shadow-like, your steps pursue
(A look of sweet incredulous distress,
Ninon, you know enhances loveliness),
Your lips perchance would murmur, "Is it true?"

Were I to tell you that my tongue can name
Each airy syllable you spoke last night,
(Ninon, you know your glances, when they blame,
Change eyes of azure into eyes of flame),
Your wrath perchance would drive me from your sight.

Were I to tell you that on bended knee
Each night I pray, despairing all the while,
(Ninon, you know that when you smile, a bee
In your red lips a blossom well might see),
Were I to tell you, you perchance would smile.

But I refrain; in silence seated near
Your beauty by the lamplight, I adore—
I breathe your fragrance and your voice I hear,
But you will find no cause to be severe,
Though all my looks you doubtingly explore.

I dwell within a region of romance—
At eve, your songs are all on earth I heed;
Your hands with harmony my soul entrance,
Or in the joyous whirlwind of the dance
I feel your lithe form tremble like a reed.

When envious night has forced me to depart
And all your charms are ravished from my view,
Quick through my brain a thousand memories dart
And like some miser, I unlock my heart,
A treasured casket filled alone for you.

I love—but coldly I can still reply;
I love—the secret I alone can tell;
Sweet is the secret, dear each stifled sigh,
For I have sworn to love, though hopelessly,
Not without bliss—I see you: it is well.

I was not born for happiness supreme,
With you to live and in your arms to die,
E'en my despair to teach me this would seem;
Still, if I told you of my passion's dream,
Who knows, adored one, what you might reply?





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