Classic Poem

Listen, that I may work your cure,
M'sieur;
You will not at my story's end
Call me your love, nor yet your friend;
You'll sigh for me no more, depend,
M'sieur.

I took your love to be my cure,
M'sieur;
Perhaps no man can fathom this—
I took your kiss to blur his kiss;
I coarsened with it all past bliss,
M'sieur.

I have to thank you for my cure,
M'sieur.
A lower love may kill a higher;
I burned my memories in its fire,—
Mere acrid smoke rose from the pyre,
M'sieur!

Adieu, we both have found our cure,
M'sieur.
Love cannot wound us, passing by;
We know he is not worth one sigh;
Yet, are we happy, you—or I,