To Ninon

Poem by Alfred De Musset Collection New PoemsPeriod 19th century

With all your wit, fair indifferent one,
With all your grand airs of nonchalant rigor,
That do us so much harm and suit you so well,
It is no less true that you can do nothing about it.

It is no less true that, without its showing,
You are my idol and my only mistress;
That one loves no less for having to hide it,
And that you cannot, Ninon, prevent me from it.

It is no less true that in spite of yourself,
When you say a word you feel that you are loved,
That, despite your scorn, one does not want to be cured,
And that for love of you, it is sweet to suffer.

It is no less true that, as soon as one touches you,
You may flee from us, shy sensitive plant,
One carries away from you flashes of beauty,
And that the torment itself is a delight.

Be kind or sly, proud or coquettish,
You may mock and scorn love,
And, like a diamond that changes facet,
Show yourself in a thousand different aspects in turn;

It is no less true that I thank you,
That I find myself happy, that I belong to you,
And that, if you want the rest of my life,
The harm that comes from you is worth more than all goods.

I will tell you someone who knows that I love you:
It is my Muse, Ninon; we have our secrets.
My Muse resembles you, or rather, it is you yourself;
So that I may love her still she comes under your features.

At night, I see in the shadow a pale halo,
Where gently float the contours of a beautiful brow;
A dream appears to me that passes and flies away;
The happy are the mad: poets are so.

I wrap my arms around a light form;
I listen at my bedside to a murmuring voice;
A beautiful angel with black eyes smiles at my misery;
I look at the sky, Ninon, and I see you;

O my only love, this cherished pain,
Do not tear it from me when I should die of it!
I fall silent before you; – what harm does my madness do?
Never pity me and let me suffer.

Alfred De Musset

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