"I’ll think no more of it !" said she.


Since when I think of it alway.

The lines are from a poem by Victor Hugo . . .

. . . from Les Contemplations

I did not think at all of Rose,
Walking with Rose to the woods that day ;
Many a chat did she propose,
But little enough had I to say.

Cold was I even as a stone,
Strolling along with careless strides.
Of flow’rs, trees, spoke I in muffled tone ;
Her bright eyes seemed to ask, " Besides ? "

Its pearls the dawn-dew proffered us,
And the hushed copses shadowy veils.
I hearkened ouzels clamorous ;
Rose only heard the nightingales.

I sixteen years, and air morose ;
Twenty she, with sparkling eyes.
Amorous nightingales piped to Rose,
Shrill ouzels mocked me with quick cries.

Rose, on slender limbs soft-swaying,
Stretched forth her fair arms quivering
To pluck a ripe fruit earthward weighing, —
And her white arm I did not see.

A brooklet tinkled clear and sweet
Among soft mosses 'neath the trees ;
Slowly the heart of Nature beat,
The hushed woods felt not any breeze.

Rose took off her dainty shoe,
And plashed, with pretty pouting air,
Her snowy foot in waters blue, —
And, ah, I saw not her foot bare.

I knew not what to say at whiles,
Still following her in solemn guise,
Often seeing her dreamy smiles,
And hearing often her soft sighs.

How fair she was I did not see,
Till tripping forth from the wood-way,
" I’ll think no more of it ! " said she.
Since when I think of it alway.

Je ne songeais pas à Rose;
Rose au bois vint avec moi;
Nous parlions de quelque chose,
Mais je ne sais plus de quoi.

J'étais froid comme les marbres;
Je marchais à pas distraits;
Je parlais des fleurs, des arbres;
Son oeil semblait dire: "Aprés?"

La rosée offrait ses perles,
Le taillis ses parasols;
J'allais; j'écoutais les merles,
Et Rose les rossignols.

Moi, seize ans, et l'air morose;
Elle vingt; ses yeux brillaient.
Les rossignols chantaient Rose,
Et les merles me sifflaient.

Rose, droite sur ses hanches,
Leva son beau bras tremblant
Pour prendre une mûre aux branches;
Je ne vis pas son bras blanc.

Une eau courait, fraiche et creuse
Sur les mousses de velours;
Et la nature amoureuse
Dormait dans les grands bois sourds.

Rose défit sa chaussure,
Et mit, d'un air ingénu,
Son petit pied dans l'eau pure;
Je ne vis pas son pied nu.

Je ne savais que lui dire;
Je la suivais dans le bois,
La voyant parfois sourire
Et soupirer quelquefois.

Je ne vis qu'elle était belle
Qu'en sortant des grands bois sourds.
"Soit; n'y pensons plus!" dit-elle.
Depuis j'y pense toujours.

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