Off voices on the cliff, Or starting strangely whe

are frayed and tattered, And the pendent sides are shattered, Pierced
and blackened by a ball. 'Tis the tale of grief
and gladness
Told by sad St. Pierre of yore, That in front of France's madness
Hangs

a strange seductive sadness, Grown pathetic evermore. And a perfume
round it hovers, Which the pages half reveal, For a folded corner
covers,
Interlaced, two names of lovers,-- A "Savignac" and "Lucile." As I
read I marvel whether, In some pleasant old

chateau,

Once they read this book together, In the scented summer weather, With
the shining Loire below? Nooked--secluded from espial, Did Love slip
and snare them so, While the hours

danced round the dial To the sound of flute and viol, In that pleasant
old chateau? Did it happen
that no single Word of mouth could either speak? Did