To the Girls of Bygone Times

Tell me where that beauty is,
the lovely one I seek,
Flora, the Woman of Rome, Thaïs,
her twin in looks, a Greek;
or Echo, who unseen will speak
when called, across a waterway,
who soared above known beauty’s peak . . .
but yesterday’s snows, where are they?

Where is wisest Heloise,
for whom, because she kissed his cheek,
the future monk of Saint-Denis
suffered a loss so cruel and bleak?
Or the queen who ordered that in the creek
a sack should drop (but it fell on hay),
imagining her lover’s stifled shriek? . . .
but yesterday’s snows, where are they?

Queen Blanche, quite pale, and good to kiss,
whose voice inviting, dancing-sleek
enchantment sang – Beatrice, Alice,
big-footed Bertha, de Metz’s clique;
and Joan of Arc, whose fierce soul meek
to God could not be burnt away –
is loveliness gone? Is it made antique? . . .
but yesterday’s snows, where are they?

Prince, you may ask me this in a week,
a month, a year, where they stay –
I’ll answer you straight, yet still oblique . . .
but yesterday’s snows, where are they?