Villon, in French none may forget,
1
"What has become of last year's snow?"
You asked—nor is there answer yet;
And where did those dead ladies go
With bosoms worn exceeding low,
5
With hair of gold, and lips of red?
It drifted—would you really know—
Flake after flake upon my head.
Ah! suns may rise and suns may set,
9
Catullus told us long ago,
But, howsoe'er we fume and fret,
The wind takes all our mortal show,
And youth hath scarcely time to blow
13
In Life's brief garden, ere 'tis fled—
Yet why so early settle so
Flake after flake upon my head?
But yesterday my locks were jet,
17
Rival of raven and of crow,
Yet, while I dined with Juliet,
And passed the wine-cup to and fro,
For all the glory and the glow,
21
The gray was creeping thread by thread,
Falling, a soft insidious foe,
Flake after flake upon my head.
Ah! Prince, the sorry overthrow!
25
A man might just as well be dead,
When once the years begin to sow
Flake after flake upon his head.