“Here at last is a true lover,” said the Nightingale. “Night after night have I sung of him, though I knew him not: night after night have I told his story to the stars, and now I see him. His hair is dark as the hyacinth-blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his face like pale ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow.”
Our wistful little star
Was far too high
A teardrop kissed your lips
And so did I
Now when I remember spring
And every little lovely thing
I will be remembering
The shadow of your smile
Your lovely smile
You see that? What's that pout? Juliette did that. I remember it perfectly. The pout is one of the French women's greatest weapons.