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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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.
Our Lady of the Snows.
[Lat., Notre Dames des Neiges.]
Our Lady of the Snows.
[Lat., Notre Dames des Neiges.]
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.]
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.
Through the sharp air a flaky torrent flies,
Mocks the slow sight, and hides the gloomy skies;
read more
Through the sharp air a flaky torrent flies,
Mocks the slow sight, and hides the gloomy skies;
The fleecy clouds their chilly bosoms bare,
And shed their substance on the floating air.
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.
If but a dozen French
Were there in arms, they would be as a call
To train read more
If but a dozen French
Were there in arms, they would be as a call
To train ten thousand English to their side,
Or as a little snow, tumbled about,
Anon becomes a mountain.
