CLAIR DE LUNE.
Your soul is as a moonlit landscape fair,
Peopled with maskers delicate and dim,
That play on lutes and dance and have an air
Of being sad in their fantastic trim.
The while they celebrate in minor strain
Triumphant love, effective enterprise,
They have an air of knowing all is vain,—
And through the quiet moonlight their songs rise,
The melancholy moonlight, sweet and lone,
That makes to dream the birds upon the tree,
And in their polished basins of white stone
The fountains tall to sob with ecstasy.
SUR L'HERBE.
"The abbé rambles."—"You, marquis,
Have put your wig on all awry."—
"This wine of Cyprus kindles me
Less, my Camargo, than your eye!"
"My passion"—"Do, mi, sol, la, si."—
"Abbé, your villany lies bare."—
"Mesdames, I climb up yonder tree
And fetch a star down, I declare."
"Let each kiss his own lady, then
The others."—"Would that I were, too,
A lap-dog!"—"Softly, gentlemen!"—
"Do, mi."—"The moon!"—"Hey, how d'ye do?"
L' ALLÉE.
Powdered and rouged as in the sheepcotes' day,
Fragile 'mid her enormous ribbon bows,
Along the shaded alley, where green grows
The moss on the old seats, she wends her way
With mincing graces and affected airs,
Such as more oft a petted parrot wears.
Her long gown with the train is blue; the fan
She spreads between her jewelled fingers slim
Is merry with a love-scene, of so dim
Suggestion, her eyes smile the while they scan.
Blonde; dainty nose; plump, cherry lips, divine
With pride unconscious.—Subtler, certainly,
Than is the mouche there set to underline
The rather foolish brightness of the eye.