On the Faubourg Saint Marçeau
Lay the mist this very morning,
Mist of autumn, heavy, thick,
And a white-hued night resembling.
Wandering through this white-hued night,
I beheld before me gliding
An enchanting female form
Which the moon’s sweet light resembled.
Yes, she was, like moonlight sweet,
Lightly floating, tender, graceful;
Such a slender shape of limbs
I had here in France ne’er witness’d.
Was it Luna’s self perchance,
Who with some young dear and handsome
Fond Endymion had to-day
In th’ Quartier Latin been ling’ring?
On my way home thus I thought:
Wherefore fled she when she saw me?
Did the Goddess think that I
Was perchance the Sun-God Phœbus?