Fantasy

There is an air for which I'd gladly give
All Mozart, all Rossini, all Von Weber,
A languid, ancient, solemn-sounding air
That yields its secret charm to me alone.

Each time it happens that I hear it played
My heart grows younger by two hundred years:
I live in former times. . . and see portrayed
A green slope gilded by the setting sun,

And then a feudal castle Banked with stone,
Its windows tinted to a glowing rose,
Bounded by spacious parks and with its feet
Bathed by a stream that through a garden flows.

And then a lady in a window high,
Fair-haired, dark-eyed, and dressed in ancient style .
Whom, in another life, perhaps I've seen,
And whom 1 now remember with a sigh.