(From the French of Charles Cros.)
Rippling low to her dainty feet,
Tress with tress did mingle and meet,
Yellow as ripening August wheat.
Her voice had an eerie melody,
Like that of an angel or a fay.
Beneath dusk lashes her eyes shone gray.
He by no rival swain set store,
As valleys through, or mountains o’er,
The maid upon his steed he bore.
For all the land had held not one
That she in her pride would look upon
To the day she met him, and was undone.
Love did her fond heart so enchain
That when her lover smiled disdain,
She to sicken and die was fain.
As she lay dying on his arm,
She said, “Bind thy bow with my locks, to charm
The maid to whom thy heart grows warm.”
One long, wild kiss, and the maid was dead.
The shimmering aureole round her head
He bound to his bow, as she had said.
Then as a blind man mournfully
Sweeps his Cremona, so did he,
And went forth, seeking charity.
And all were thrilled with ecstasy,
For the dead lived within the lay,
And with her songs all hearts did sway.
The king showered honors on his head;
The dark-eyed queen, to honor dead,
With him by moonlight swiftly fled.
But when, to please her, he essayed
To play, no more the bow obeyed,
But mournfully did him upbraid.
And at its plaint the sinful twain
In mid-flight by remorse were slain,
And the dead had her pledge again.
Her locks that to her dainty feet
Rippling low, did mingle and meet,
Yellow as ripening August wheat.