  (Translated by John Payne.) TELL me, where, in what land of shade, Hides fair Flora of Rome? and where Are ThaÌs and Archipiade, Cousins-german in beauty rare? And Echo, more than mortal fair, That when one calls by river flow, Or marish, answers out of the air? But what has become of last year’s snow? Where did the learn’d HÉloÏsa vade, For whose sake Abelard did not spare (Such dole for love on him was laid) And where is the queen who will’d whilere That Buridan, tied in a sack, should go Floating down Seine from the turret-stair? But what has become of last year’s snow? Blanche, too, the lily-white queen, that made Sweet music as if she a siren were? Broad-foot Bertha? and Joan, the maid, The good Lorrainer the English bare Captive to Rouen, and burn’d her there? Beatrix, Eremburge, Alys—lo! Where are they, virgins debonair? But what has become of last year’s snow? Envoi Prince, you may question how they fare, This week, or liefer this year, I trow: Still shall this burden the answer bear— But what has become of last year’s snow? FranÇois Villon. |
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