In antique weed, with dark eyes and gold hair, A lady looks forth from her window high; It may be that I knew and found her fair, In some forgotten life, long time gone by. JUANA. ALFRED DE MUSSET. AGAIN I see you, ah my queen, Of all my old loves that have been, The first love, and the tenderest; Do you remember or forget— Ah me, for I remember yet— How the last summer days were blest? Ah lady, when we think of this, The foolish hours of youth and bliss, How fleet, how sweet, how hard to hold! How old we are, ere spring be green! You touch the limit of eighteen And I am twenty winters old. My rose, that mid the red roses, Was brightest, ah, how pale she is! Yet keeps the beauty of her prime; Child, never Spanish lady’s face Was lovely with so wild a grace; Remember the dead summer time. Think of our loves, our feuds of old, And how you gave your chain of gold To me for a peace offering; And how all night I lay awake To touch and kiss it for your sake,— To touch and kiss the lifeless thing. Lady, beware, for all we say, This Love shall live another day, Awakened from his deathly sleep; The heart that once has been your shrine For other loves is too divine; A home, my dear, too wide and deep. What did I say—why do I dream? Why should I struggle with the stream Whose waves return not any day? Close heart, and eyes, and arms from me; Farewell, farewell! so must it be, So runs, so runs, the world away, The season bears upon its wing The swallows and the songs of spring, And days that were, and days that flit; The loved lost hours are far away; And hope and fame are scattered spray For me, that gave you love a day For you that not remember it. SPRING IN THE STUDENT’S QUARTER. HENRI MURGER. WINTER is passing, and the bells For ever with their silver lay Murmur a melody that tells Of April and of Easter day. High in sweet air the light vane sets, The weathercocks all southward twirl; A sou will buy her violets And make Nini a happy girl. The winter to the poor was sore, Counting the weary winter days, Watching his little fire-wood store, The bitter snow-flakes fell always; And now his last log dimly gleamed, Lighting the room with feeble glare, Half cinder and half smoke it seemed That the wind wafted into air. Pilgrims from ocean and far isles See where the east is reddening, The flocks that fly a thousand miles From sunsetting to sunsetting; Look up, look out, behold the swallows, The throats that twitter, the wings that beat; And on their song the summer follows, And in the summer life is sweet. * * * * * *