Where smooth the Southern waters run Through rustling leagues of poplars gray, Beneath a veiled soft Southern sun, We wandered out of Yesterday; Went Maying in that ancient May Whose fallen flowers are fragrant yet, And lingered by the fountain spray With Aucassin and Nicolete. The grassgrown paths are trod of none Where through the woods they went astray; The spider's traceries are spun Across the darkling forest way; There come no Knights that ride to slay, No Pilgrims through the grasses wet, No shepherd lads that sang their say With Aucassin and Nicolete.