VILLANELLE. Wouldst thou not be content to die Beneath this delicate rose-gray sky, While sunset bells are faintly ringing, Wouldst thou not be content to die? For wintry webs of mist on high Out of the muffled earth are springing, And golden Autumn passes by. O now when pleasures fade and fly, And Hope her southward flight is winging, Wouldst thou not be content to die? Lest Winter come, with wailing cry When golden Autumn hath passed by; And thou with many a tear and sigh, While life her wasted hands is wringing, Shall pray in vain for leave to die When golden Autumn hath passed by. EDMUND Gosse. VILLANELLE. Little mistress mine, good-bye! Waste no tear and heave no sigh, Life should still be blithe for you, Little mistress mine, good-bye! In your garden let me lie; Underneath the pointed yew Dig my grave, for I must die. We have loved the quiet sky With its tender arch of blue; Little mistress mine, good-bye! That I still may feel you nigh, Let our garden-friends that fly Be the mourners, fit and few. Little mistress mine, good-bye! Dig my grave, for I must die. EDMUND GOSSE. VILLANELLE. Where's the use of sighing? Time is always flying Flying!-and defying Men to say him nay Where's the use of sighing? Look! To-day is dying Flying-and when crying Čannot make him stay, Where's the use of sighing? Men with by-and-bying, Time is always flying, Flying!-O, from prying Cease, and go to play. Where's the use of sighing, "Time is always flying? W. E. HENLEY. VILLANELLE. A dainty thing's the Villanelle. A double-clappered silver bell That must be made to clink in chime, A dainty thing's the Villanelle; And if you wish to flute a spell, Or ask a meeting 'neath the lime, It serves its purpose passing well. You must not ask of it the swell Of organs grandiose and sublime— A dainty thing's the Villaneile; And, filled with sweetness, as a shell Is filled with sound, and launched in time, It serves its purpose passing well. Still fair to see and good to smell As in the quaintness of its prime, W. E. HENLEY. VILLANELLE. In the clatter of the train Is a promise brisk and bright. I shall see my love again! I am tired and fagged and fain; In the clatter of the train, Hurry-hurrying on amain Through the moonshine thin and white I shall see my love again! Many noisy miles remain ; But a sympathetic sprite In the clatter of the train Hammers cheerful :-that the strain I shall see my love again. Yes, the overword is plain,- In the clatter of the train : W. E. IIENLEY. |