Lawn as white as driven snow,
Cyprus black as e'er was crow,
Gloves as sweet as damask roses,
Masks for faces and for noses,
Bugle bracelet, necklace amber,
Perfume for a lady's chamber,
Golden quoifs and stomachers
For my lads to give their dears,
Pins and poking-sticks of steel,
What maids lack from head to heel.
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O that I were a mockery king of snow,
Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke
To melt read more
O that I were a mockery king of snow,
Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke
To melt myself away in water drops!
But where are the snows of yester year?
[Fr., Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?]
But where are the snows of yester year?
[Fr., Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?]
Come, night; come, Romeo; come, thou day in night;
For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night
read more
Come, night; come, Romeo; come, thou day in night;
For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night
Whiter than new snow upon a raven's back.
Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the read more
Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.
Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow,
Filling the sky and earth below,
Over the housetops, over the read more
Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow,
Filling the sky and earth below,
Over the housetops, over the street,
Over the heads of the people you meet.
Dancing,
Flirting,
Skimming along.
But where are the snows of last year? That was the greatest
concern of Villon, the Parisian poet.
read more
But where are the snows of last year? That was the greatest
concern of Villon, the Parisian poet.
[Fr., Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan? C'estoit le plus grand
soucy qu'eust Villon, le poete parisien.]
Lo. sifted through the winds that blow,
Down comes the soft and silent snow,
White petals from read more
Lo. sifted through the winds that blow,
Down comes the soft and silent snow,
White petals from the flowers that grow
In the cold atmosphere.
Come, see the north-wind's masonry,
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
read more
Come, see the north-wind's masonry,
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, naught cares he
For number or proportion.
