Poem by Francois Villon

Ballade

Tell me where, in what country,
is the lovely Roman, Flora?
Archipiada? Thaïs, her cousin?
And Echo, speaking when one
called out over pond or stream,
and whose beauty was more than human?
Indeed, where are the snows of yesteryear?

Where is the very wise Héloïse,
because of whom Pierre Abelard was gelded
and became a monk at Saint-Denis?
(For his love he suffered this.)
Yes, and where is the queen
who ordered that Buridan
be thrown in a sack in the Seine?
Indeed, where are the snows of yesteryear?

The queen, white as a lily,
who sang in a siren's voice?
And Bertha of the outsized feet?
And Beatrice and Alice?
And Haremburgis, Countess of Maine?
And good Joan of Lorraine,
burned by the English at Rouen?
Where are they?
Where, sovereign Virgin?
Indeed, where are the snows of yesteryear?

Prince, you won't ask me where they are
this week, or in a year,
that I won't throw it back to you:
Indeed, where are the snows of yesteryear?


François Villon
(Translation by James M. Moose)