Into my room he seemed to glide;
The moonbeams through the window wide
Snowed in upon my white bedside.
He kissed my lips, he kissed my cheek;
I could not kiss him back nor speak:
I feared the blissful sleep to break.
Sing louder, nightingales of May!
Sing, dash my golden dream away!
Sing anthems to the orient day!
The moonlight pales; the gray cock crows;
A murmur in the tree top goes;
Sleep sheds her petals like a rose.
John Addington Symonds.
OH, WHEN WILL IT BE?
OH, when will it be, oh, when will it be, oh, when
That she shall be here, and the flute be here, and the wine be here? oh, then
Her lips shall kiss the lips of the flute, and my lips shall kiss the wine,
And I shall drink music from her sweet lips, and she shall drink madness from mine.
John Addington Symonds.
BALLADE OF THE LADYES OF LONG SYNE.
From the French of François Villon.
TELL me wher, in what contree, is
Flora, the beautifulle Romaine?
Thais and Archipiadis,
Wher are they now, those cosins twaine?
And Echo, gretyng her love agein
By banke of river and marge of mere,
Whos beaute was fre fro mortall stayne?
Nay, wher are the snowes that fell last year?
Wher is the lerned Helowis,
For whom undon in celle did plaine
Pierre Abelard at Saint Denys?
For love’s reward he had this peine
Where is the quene who did ordeine
That Buridan shulde drift in fere
Sowed in a sacke adoun the Saine?
Nay, wher are the snowes that fell last year?
Quene Blanche, fayre as the floure-de-lys,
Who sang as swete as the meremaid strayne,
Alys too, Bertha, Bietris,
And Hermengarde, who halt the Mayne,
And Joan, the good may of Lorraine,
At Rouen brent by Englyshe fere,—
Wher are they, Virgine soveraine?
Nay, wher are the snowes that fell last year?