Strange flowers, fair crimson-hearted flowers Poured their ripe odours over us, And evil voices of the hours Whispered above us in the boughs. We yielded to it all, ah me! What vertigo of fools held fast Our senses in its ecstasy Until the heat of summer passed? There were vain tears and vainer laughter, And hands indefinitely pressed, Moist sadnesses, and swoonings after, And what vague void within the breast? But autumn came to our relief, Its light grown cold, its gusts grown rough, Came to remind us, sharp and brief, That we had wantoned long enough, And led us quickly to recover The elegance demanded of Every quite irreproachable lover And every seemly lady-love. Now it is winter, and, alas, Our backers tremble for their stake; Already other sledges pass And leave us toiling in their wake. Put both your hands into your muff, Sit back, now, steady! off we go. Fanchon will tell us soon enough Whatever news there is to know. XI. FANTOCHES Scaramouche waves a threatening hand To Pulcinella, and they stand, Two shadows, black against the moon. The old doctor of Bologna pries For simples with impassive eyes, And mutters o'er a magic rune. The while his daughter, scarce half-dressed, Glides slyly 'neath the trees, in quest Of her bold pirate lover's sail; Her pirate from the Spanish main, Whose passion thrills her in the pain Of the loud languorous nightingale. XII. CYTHÈRE By favourable breezes fanned, A trellised harbour is at hand To shield us from the summer airs; The scent of roses, fainting sweet, Afloat upon the summer heat, Blends with the perfume that she wears. True to the promise her eyes gave, She ventures all, and her mouth rains A dainty fever through my veins; And, Love fulfilling all things, save Hunger, we 'scape, with sweets and ices, The folly of Love's sacrifices. XIII. EN BATEAU The shepherd's star with trembling glint Drops in black water; at the hint The pilot fumbles for his flint. Now is the time or never, sirs. No hand that wanders wisely errs: I touch a hand, and is it hers? The knightly Atys strikes the strings, And to the faithless Chloris flings A look that speaks of many things. The abbé has absolved again Eglé, the viscount all in vain Has given his hasty heart the rein. Meanwhile the moon is up and streams Upon the skiff that flies and seems To float upon a tide of dreams. XIV. LE FAUNE An aged faun of old red clay-Laughs from the grassy bowling-green, Foretelling doubtless some decay Of mortal moments so serene That lead us lightly on our way (Love's piteous pilgrims have we been!) To this last hour that runs away Dancing to the tambourine. XV. MANDOLINE