La Jeunesse et la Mort

I

Unto her fragrant face and hair,--
As some wild-bee unto a rose,
That blooms in splendid beauty there
Within the South,--my longing goes:
My longing, that is overfain
To call her mine, but all in vain;
Since jealous Death, as each one knows,
Is guardian of La belle Heléne;
Of her whose face is very fair--
To my despair,
Ah, belle Heléne.

II

The sweetness of her face suggests
The sensuous scented Jacqueminots;
Magnolia blooms her throat and breasts;
Her hands, long lilies in repose:
Fair flowers all without a stain,
That grow for Death to pluck again,
Within that garden's radiant close.
The body of La belle Heléne;
The garden glad that she suggests,--
That Death invests,
Ah, belle Heléne.

III

God had been kinder to me,--when
He dipped His hands in fires and snows
And made you like a flower to ken,
A flower that in Earth's garden grows,--
Had He, for pleasure or for pain,
Instead of Death in that domain,
Made Love the gardener to that rose,
Your loveliness, O belle Heléne!
God had been kinder to me then--
Me of all men,
Ah, belle Heléne.