A Minstrel stands on a marble stair,

Blown by the bright wind, debonair;

Below lies the sea, a sapphire floor,

Above on the terrace a turret door

Frames a lady, listless and wan,

But fair for the eye to rest upon.

The minstrel plucks at his silver strings,

And looking up to the lady, sings: --

Down the road to Avignon,

The long, long road to Avignon,

Across the bridge to Avignon,

One morning in the spring.

The octagon tower casts a shade

Cool and gray like a cutlass blade;

In sun-baked vines the cicalas spin,

The little green lizards run out and in.

A sail dips over the oceans rim,

And bubbles rise to the fountains brim.

The minstrel touches his silver strings,

And gazing up to the lady, sings: --

Down the road to Avignon,

The long, long road to Avignon,

Across the bridge to Avignon,

One morning in the spring.

Slowly she walks to the balustrade,

Idly notes how the blossoms fade

In the suns caress; then crosses where

The shadow shelters a carven chair.

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