That night on Judge’s Walk we said No word of all we had to say; And now no word shall e’er be said Before the Judgment Day.
Sing on, sing on: half dreaming still I hear you singing down the hill, Through the green wood, beside the rill.
Each to the other sing, sweet birds; Make music sweeter far than words; Drown my still soul with song, sweet birds.
Under each starbeam there was sleep; Far down the river wandered deep; The woods closed round it still and steep.
One watch-dog from the lone farm bayed; The waterfowl beneath the shade Of sedge and flowering reed were laid.
The birds sang on, and slumber shed Like silver clouds upon my head; I slept, nor stirred me in my bed.
Into my room he seemed to glide; The moonbeams through the window wide Snowed in upon my white bedside.
He kissed my lips, he kissed my cheek; I could not kiss him back nor speak: I feared the blissful sleep to break.
Sing louder, nightingales of May! Sing, dash my golden dream away! Sing anthems to the orient day!
The moonlight pales; the gray cock crows; A murmur in the tree top goes; Sleep sheds her petals like a rose.
Oh, when will it be, oh, when will it be, oh, when That she shall be here, and the flute be here, and the wine be here? oh, then Her lips shall kiss the lips of the flute, and my lips shall kiss the wine, And I shall drink music from her sweet lips, and she shall drink madness from mine.
Tell me wher, in what contree, is Flora, the beautifulle Romaine? Thais and Archipiadis, Wher are they now, those cosins twaine? And Echo, gretyng her love agein By banke of river and marge of mere, Whos beaute was fre fro mortall stayne? Nay, wher are the snowes that fell last year?
Wher is the lerned Helowis, For whom undon in celle did plaine Pierre Abelard at Saint Denys? For love’s reward he had this peine Where is the quene who did ordeine That Buridan shulde drift in fere Sowed in a sacke adoun the Saine? Nay, wher are the snowes that fell last year?
Quene Blanche, fayre as the floure-de-lys, Who sang as swete as the meremaid strayne, Alys too, Bertha, Bietris, And Hermengarde, who halt the Mayne, And Joan, the good may of Lorraine, At Rouen brent by Englyshe fere,-- Wher are they, Virgine soveraine? Nay, wher are the snowes that fell last year?