What do you want dear little flower,
Friendly and charming souvenir?
Half dead and half coquette,
To me that makes you come?

Under this seal wrapped,
You just go a long way.
What did you see? told you that the hand
That the bush has cut you?

Art thou a parched grass
Which comes complete die?
Or your bosom, ready to bloom again,
Does it contain a thought?

Your flower, alas! the whiteness
The distressing innocence;
But the fearful hope
Your paper is colored.

Have you any message for me?
You can talk, I am discreet.
Your green is it a secret?
Your perfume is it a language?

If so, speak low,
Mysterious messenger;
If this is not, do not answer;
Sleep on my heart, fresh and light.

I know too well that hand,
Full of grace and caprice,
That a strand of flexible wire and end
At thy pale cup tied.

This hand, little flower,
Neither Phidias nor Praxiteles
Never could have found the sister
By taking model for Venus.

But she is wise, it is severe;
Some harm could happen to me.
Fleurette, fear his wrath.
Do not say anything, let me dream.



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