There is an air for which I'd gladly give All Mozart, all Rossini, all Von Weber, A languid, ancient, solemn-sounding air That yields its secret charm to me alone. Each time it happens that I hear it played My heart grows younger by two hundred years: I live in former times . . . and see portrayed A green slope gilded by the setting sun, And then a feudal castle flanked with stone, Its windows tinted to a glowing rose, Bounded by spacious parks and with its feet Bathed by a stream that through a garden flows. And then a lady in a window high, Fair-haired, dark-eyed, and dressed in ancient style . . . Whom, in another life, perhaps I've seen, And whom I now remember with a sigh. |