When I see you come through the forest grove,
On its leaves I write the secret of my love.
—But a fragile trust are the forest leaves,
To hold the secrets close which their page receives.
When comes the storm of rain, and gusty air,
Your secrets close are scattered everywhere.
’Twere safer far, young clerk, on my heart to write.
Graven deep they’d rest, and never take their flight.
Love Song.
MODERN BRETON
In the white cabin at the foot of the mountain,
Is my sweet, my love:
Is my love, is my desire,
And all my happiness.
Before the night must I see her
Or my little heart will break.
My little heart will not break,
For my lovely dear I have seen.