--Nay, not fantastic. If you will, Fond, surely irreproachable. Suppose, then, that we die together? --Good sir, your jests are fitlier told Than when you speak of love or gold. Why speak at all, in this glad weather? Whereat, behold them once again, Tircis beside his Dorimène, Not far from two blithe rustic rovers, For some caprice of idle breath Deferring a delicious death. Ha! ha! ha! what fantastic lovers! XIX. COLUMBINE The foolish Leander, Cape-covered Cassander, And which Is Pierrot? 'tis he With the hop of a flea Leaps the ditch; And Harlequin who Rehearses anew His sly task, With his dress that's a wonder, And eyes shining under His mask; Mi, sol, mi, fa, do! How gaily they go, And they sing And they laugh and they twirl Round the feet of a girl Like the Spring, Whose eyes are as green As a cat's are, and keen As its claws, And her eyes without frown Bid all new-comers Down With your paws! On they go with the force Of the stars in their course, And the speed: O tell me toward what Disaster unthought, Without heed The implacable fair, A rose in her hair, Holding up Her skirts as she runs Leads this dance of the dunce And the dupe? XX. L'AMOUR PAR TERRE The other night a sudden wind laid low The Love, shooting an arrow at a mark, In the mysterious corner of the park, Whose smile disquieted us long ago. The wind has overthrown him, and above His scattered dust, how sad it is to spell The artist's name still faintly visible Upon the pedestal without its Love, How sad it is to see the pedestal Still standing! as in dream I seem to hear Prophetic voices whisper in my ear The lonely and despairing end of all. How sad it is! Why, even you have found A tear for it, although your frivolous eye Laughs at the gold and purple butterfly Poised on the piteous litter on the ground. XXI. EN SOURDINE Calm where twilight leaves have stilled With their shadow light and sound, Let our silent love be filled With a silence as profound. Let our ravished senses blend Heart and spirit, thine and mine, With vague languors that descend From the branches of the pine. Close thine eyes against the day, Fold thine arms across thy breast, And for ever turn away All desire of all but rest. Let the lulling breaths that pass In soft wrinkles at thy feet, Tossing all the tawny grass, This and only this repeat. And when solemn evening Dims the forest's dusky air, Then the nightingale shall sing The delight of our despair. XXII. COLLOQUE SENTIMENTAL In the old park, solitary and vast, Over the frozen ground two forms once passed.