FÊTES GALANTES.

By Arthur Symons

THE singers of serenades

Whisper their faded vows

Unto fair listening maids

Under the singing boughs.

Tircis, Aminte, are there,

Clitandre is over-long,

And Damis for many a fair

Tyrant makes many a song.

Their short vests, silken and bright,

Their long pale silken trains,

Their elegance of delight,

Twine soft blue silken chains.

And the mandolines and they,

Faintlier breathing, swoon

Into the rose and grey

Ecstasy of the moon.