From the French of François Villon

Tell me now in what hidden way is
Lady Flora the lovely Roman?
Where’s Hipparchia, and where is Thais,
Neither of them the fairer woman?
Where is Echo, beheld of no man,
Only heard on river and mere—
She whose beauty was more than human?—
But where are the snows of yester-year?

Where’s Heloise, the learned nun,
For whose sake Abeillard, I ween,
Lost manhood and put priesthood on?
(From Love he won such dule and teen!)
And where, I pray you, is the Queen
Who willed that Buridan should steer
Sewed in a sack’s mouth down the Seine?—
But where are the snows of yester-year?

White Queen Blanche, like a queen of lilies,
With a voice like any mermaiden—
Bertha Broadfoot, Beatrice, Alice,
And Ermengarde the lady of Maine—
And that good Joan whom Englishmen
At Rouen doomed and burned her there—
Mother of God, where are they then?—
But where are the snows of yester-year?

Nay, never ask this week, fair lord,
Where they are gone, nor yet this year,
Except with this for an overword—
But where are the snows of yester-year?

We shall launch our shallop on waters blue from some dim primrose shore,
We shall sail with the magic of dusk behind and enchanted coasts before,
Over oceans that stretch to the sunset land where lost Atlantis lies,
And our pilot shall be the vesper star that shines in the amber skies.

The sirens will call to us again, all sweet and demon-fair,
And a pale mermaiden will beckon us, with mist on her night-black hair;
We shall see the flash of her ivory arms, her mocking and luring face,
And her guiling laughter will echo through the great, wind-winnowed space.

But we shall not linger for woven spell, or sea-nymph's sorceries,
It is ours to seek for the fount of youth, and the gold of Hesperides,
Till the harp of the waves in its rhythmic beat keeps time to our pulses' swing,
And the orient welkin is smit to flame with auroral crimsoning.

And at last, on some white and wondrous dawn, we shall reach the fairy isle
Where our hope and our dream are waiting us, and the to-morrows smile;
With song on our lips and faith in our hearts we sail on our ancient quest,
And each man shall find, at the end of the voyage, the thing he loves the best.

Thunder and lightening but no rain today. Stormy on one half of the sky, grey with hints of purple and brown. Lightning streaking through it, more yellow than I've ever seen before. Thunder seeming to shake the sky and rumble the low hanging clouds that form a cove. The other side of the sky, the other day so to speak, is most beautiful. An orange setting sun lights up the horizon to a beautiful glow. Floating wisps of clouds dance in the sky, white, turning pink as the sun goes to sleep. A rainbow centers the worlds, pulls them together. A rainbow traveling to depths seen never before. Depths seen only by the wandering unicorns on mushroom trails in the sky. I knew this crazy 110 heat meant something was coming. Something to twist the world open, to begin exploration.

Between storm and setting sun, along the Rainbow Lane, you might happen across a fairy maiden or water nymph. Veer right you'll find the forest, a hauntingly beautiful deep, bright green, accented in every corner by berry hues. Float down Waterfall Pass into the lake of the mermen, the most lustrous mermaiden, and the forever awed Water Monster. You've one last place to visit, before you join this adventure tale. The town on the left, where civilian like me reside. We have shoe makers, cobblers, stables and schools; manors, mansions, cabins and sheds. We eat, we drink, we're merry and magical. We live in Norvella, and our fantastical adventure begins here.