A MEDIAEVAL SYMPHONY
Could I write a symphony
I would soon re-tell the old
Tale so quaintly and so well
By the wandering jongleur told.
Violins should weave the spell
Of a blue and silver night.
Then, the cymbals clashing light
Seem the faintly tinkling mail
Of the youthful prince who wide
Through the forest seeks his bride,
His "sweete friende" without avail.
Hark, the horn winds plaintive, thin,
Quick he comes—bold Aucassin.
I would soon re-tell the old
Tale so quaintly and so well
By the wandering jongleur told.
Violins should weave the spell
Of a blue and silver night.
Then, the cymbals clashing light
Seem the faintly tinkling mail
Of the youthful prince who wide
Through the forest seeks his bride,
His "sweete friende" without avail.
Hark, the horn winds plaintive, thin,
Quick he comes—bold Aucassin.
Harps and viols thrillingly
Upward weave and intertwine
Like the rich wall-tracery
Of that "bowere in the woodes,"
Leafy bough and branching vine
Starred with rosy purple buds.
Now, flute-tremors wildly sweet
Seem those naked, tripping feet
By whose whiteness dark with shame
Showed the moon-drenched daisies all.
Hear the wistful oboe call
Low and clear the well loved name.
Over grass all dewy wet
Swift she comes—lithe Nicolette.
Upward weave and intertwine
Like the rich wall-tracery
Of that "bowere in the woodes,"
Leafy bough and branching vine
Starred with rosy purple buds.
Now, flute-tremors wildly sweet
Seem those naked, tripping feet
By whose whiteness dark with shame
Showed the moon-drenched daisies all.
Hear the wistful oboe call
Low and clear the well loved name.
Over grass all dewy wet
Swift she comes—lithe Nicolette.
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