NAY, tell me now in what strange air

The Roman Flora dwells to-day;

Where Archippiada hides, and where

Beautiful Thais has passed away?

Whence answers Echo, afield, astray,

By mere or stream,—around, below?

Lovelier she than a woman of clay;

Where is wise HÉloise, that care

Brought on Abeilard, and dismay?

All for her love he found a snare,

A maimed poor monk in orders grey;

And where’s the Queen who willed to slay

Buridan, that in a sack must go

Afloat down Seine,—a perilous way—

Nay, but where is the last year’s snow?

Where’s that White Queen, a lily rare,

With her sweet song, the Siren’s lay?

Where’s Bertha Broad-foot, Beatrice fair?

Alys and Ermengarde, where are they?

Good Joan, whom English did betray

In Rouen town, and burned her? No,

Maiden and Queen, no man may say;

Nay, but where is the last year’s snow?

Prince, all this week thou need’st not pray,

Nor yet this year the thing to know.

One burden answers, ever and aye,

“Nay, but where is the last year’s snow?”