Classic Poem

Qu'elle est jolie.

Ye Gods! how passing fair is she—
She, who my idol aye shall be!
Her eyes' soft melancholy light
To fondest dreams of love invite!
The balmiest breath of life, that Heaven
Could give, to her was gladly given.
Ye Gods! how passing fair is she;
And what a fright you've made of me!

Ye Gods! how fair is she! at most
Some twenty Springs she can but boast:
Her mouth a floweret freshly blowing,
Her hair in long light tresses flowing,
With thousand talents decked, alone
She to herself remains unknown.
Ye Gods! how passing fair is she;
And what a fright you've made of me!

Ye Gods! how fair is she! and yet
On me, on me her love is set.
Those features long my envy raised,
That by the gentler sex are praised;
And till o'er me her spell she threw,
I frightened Love—away he flew
Ye Gods! how passing fair is she;
And what a fright you've made of me!

Ye Gods! how fair is she! yet true
Her love for me, and constant too!
A garland, plucked by her, my brow,
Bald before thirty, circles now
Illusions o'er my charmer thrown,
Away, then! yes, she's all my own!
Ye Gods! how passing fair is she;
And what a fright you've made of me!