Song II

Like some rare queen of old romance
Who loved the gleam of helm and lance
Is she.
A harper of King Arthur's days
Should praise her in a hundred lays:
The queen of Love and Chivalry,
O Dieu te garde, mon coeur, ma vie.
And crown-wise plaited is her hair,
No crown of woven gold more fair
Could be.
And very queen-like, too, the smile
That lightens every little while
A face too fair for men to see,
O Dieu te garde, mon coeur, ma vie.
She is not over kind, I know;
The queens were gracious long ago,
Ah me!
Queen Guenevere would give a kiss
Ofttimes to Launcelot, I wis,
I would that I were loved as he!
O Dieu te garde, mon coeur, ma vie,

Sara Teasdale

Sara Teasdale (August 8, 1884 – January 29, 1933) was an American lyric poet. She was born in St. Louis, Missouri and her first poem publication was in 1907. Teasdale's style was characterized by clarity and simplicity, often focusing on themes of love, nature, and death. She won the Columbia University Poetry Society Prize for her 1917 collection Love Songs. Unfortunately, she faced severe health issues and depression towards the end of her life, leading to her suicide in 1933.

Sara Teasdale

Paris In Spring

Sara Teasdale, Simple Poetry

Night In Arizona

Sara Teasdale, Simple Poetry

Sonnet

Sara Teasdale, Simple Poetry

Driftwood

Sara Teasdale, Simple Poetry

English

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Like souls that balance joy and pain,
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The topmost elm-tree gather'd green
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The princess has her lovers,
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O MIGHTY Queen, our Lady of the fire,
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Two knights rode forth at early dawn
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"I care not for her face,
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And each knight blew upon his horn
And went his separate way,
And each knight found a lady-love
Before the fall of day.

But she was brown who should have had
The shining yellow hair,
I ween the knights forgot their words
Or else they ceased to care.

For he who wanted purity
Brought home a wanton wild,
And when each saw the other knight
I seen that each knight smiled.

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André Le Chapelain.

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His Plaint To Venus Of The Coming Years.

"Plus ne suis ce que j'ay esté
Et ne le sçaurois jamais estre;
Mon beau printemps et mon esté
Ont fait le saut par la fenestre."


Queen Venus, round whose feet,
To tend thy sacred fire,
With service bitter-sweet
Nor youths nor maidens tire;--
Goddess, whose bounties be
Large as the un-oared sea;--

Mother, whose eldest born
First stirred his stammering tongue,
In the world's youngest morn,
When the first daisies sprung:--
Whose last, when Time shall die,
In the same grave shall lie:--

Hear thou one suppliant more!
Must I, thy Bard, grow old,
Bent, with the temples frore,
Not jocund be nor bold,
To tune for folk in May
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