I am sure to meet her daily,
Meet my golden-headed fair one,
Where the chestnuts in the garden
Of the Tuileries are blooming.

Every day she promenades there
With two ancient ugly ladies—
Are they aunts? Dragoons were liker,
Masquerading petticoated!

Of this grim moustachioed couple
Who accompany her, fearful:
Even worse intimidated
By my heart and its misgiving:

I have never dared to whisper,
When we met, or sigh a greeting;
I have hardly dared, with glances,
To inform her of my passion.

But to-day I have discovered
What her name is: she is Laura,
Like the fair Provençal lady
Whom the famous poet worshipped.

She is Laura! I'm as lucky
As was Petrarch, he who honoured
And extolled the lovely woman
In his canzonets and sonnets.

She is Laura! I can riot
And platonically revel
In the beauty now and sweetness
Of the name—He did no more.