Provincia Deserta

At Rochecoart, Where the hills part in three ways, And three valleys, full of winding roads, Fork out to south and north, There is a place of trees . . . gray with lichen. I have walked there thinking of old days. At Chalais is a pleached arbour; Old pensioners and old protected \vomen Have the right there it is charity. I have crept over old rafters, peering down Over the Dronne, over a stream full of lilies. Eastward the road lies, Aubeterre is eastward, With a garrulous old man at the inn. I know the roads in that place: Mareuil to the north-east, La Tour, There are three keeps near Mareuil, And an old woman, glad to hear Arnaut, Glad to lend one dry clothing. I have walked into Perigord, I have seen the torch-flames, high-leaping, Painting the front of that church; Heard, under the dark, whirling laughter. I have looked back over the stream and seen the high building, Seen the long minarets, the white shafts. I have gone in Ribeyrac and in Sarlat, I have climbed rickety stairs, heard talk of Croy, Walked over En Bertran's old layout, Have seen Narbonne, and Cahors and Chalus, Have seen Excideuil, carefully fashioned. I have said: ‘Here such a one walked. ‘Here Cceur-de-Lion was slain. 'Here was good singing. 'Here one man hastened his step. 'Here one lay panting.' I have looked south from Hautefort, thinking of Montaignac, southward. I have lain in Rocafixada, level with sunset, Have seen the copper come down tingeing the mountains, I have seen the fields, pale, clear as an emerald, Sharp peaks, high spurs, distant castles. I have said: The old roads have lain here. 'Men have gone by such valleys ‘Where the great halls were closer together.' I have seen Foix on its rock, seen Toulouse, and Aries greatly altered, I have seen the ruined 'Dorata'. I have said: 'Riquier! Guido.' I have thought of the second Troy, Some little prized place in Auvergnat: Two men tossing a coin, one keeping a castle, One set on the highway to sing. He sang a woman, Auvergne rose to the song; The Dauphin backed him. 'The castle to Austors!' 'Pieire kept the singing ‘A fair man and a pleasant.' He won the lady, Stole her away for himself, kept her against armed force: So ends that story. That age is gone; Pieire de Maensac is gone. I have walked over these roads; I have thought of them living.