RONDEAU

Ah, Manon, say, why is it we

Are one and all so fain of thee?

Thy rich red beauty debonnaire

In very truth is not more fair,

Than the shy grace and purity

That clothe the maiden maidenly;

Her gray eyes shine more tenderly

And not less bright than thine her hair;

Ah, Manon, say!

Expound, I pray, the mystery

Why wine-stained lip and languid eye,

And most unsaintly Maenad air,

Should move us more than all the rare

White roses of virginity?

Ah, Manon, say!