THESE antique metres of old France, So dear to minstrel and Trouvère, Were set and sung when smiled the fair On songs that grew beneath her glance. They call for lists of love and lance, For rosy lips and glistering hair, These antique metres of old France, So dear to minstrel and Trouvère. Like dust of roses, drawn, perchance, From some forgotten corner where A lover left them, they, too, bear A hinted fragrance of Romance: These antique metres of old France, So dear to minstrel and Trouvère. |