OLD TREES.
“Où sont les gratieux gallans
Que je suyvoye au temps jadis,
Si bien chantans, si bien parlans,
Si plainsans en faictz et en dictz?”
François Villon.
Men, long ago, whose faces, burning white,
Waxed pale about the lips with strong desire,
O women, ye whose hearts were like a fire
For love that found you not by day or night,
The saplings that first budded in your sight
Are ancient trees to-day whose tops aspire;
The wind is in their leaves as in a lyre,
And sings the same old songs at dawning light!
This trunk I cannot span with outspread hands,
Perchance, an acorn, fell that very day
That Chaucer's white-throat lady past away;
Or heard, a wand among the maze's wands,
The sobs of poisoned Rosamond where she lay
Fast dying in the heart of summer lands.
