VILLANELLE

I

Wouldst thou not be content to die
When low-hung fruit is hardly clinging,
And golden Autumn passes by?

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
His cruel icy bondage bringing,
When golden Autumn hath passed by.

And thou, with many a tear and sigh,

While life her wasted hands is wringing,

Shalt pray in vain for leave to die

When golden Autumn hath passed by.

Edmund Gosse

VILLANELLE

Little mistress mine, good-bye!
I have been your sparrow true;
Dig my grave, for I must die.

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,
In your virgin bosom, too,
Dig my grave, for I must die.

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

"A VOICE IN THE SCENTED NIGHT"

(Villanelle at Verona)

A voice in the scented night,

A step where the rose-trees blow,—
O Love, and O Love's delight!

Cold star at the blue vault's height,
What is it that shakes you so?
A voice in the scented night!

She comes in her beauty bright,

She comes in her young love's glow,

O Love, and O Love's delight!

She bends from her casement white,

And she hears it, hushed and low,

A voice in the scented night.

And he climbs by that stairway slight,—
Her passionate ROMEO:-

O Love, and O Love's delight!

For it stirs us still in spite

Of its "ever so long ago,"
That voice in the scented night,—
O Love, and O Love's delight!

Austin Dobson

FOR A COPY OF THEOCRITUS

O singer of the field and fold,
Theocritus! Pan's pipe was thine,-
Thine was the happier Age of Gold.

For thee the scent of new-turned mould,
The bee-hives, and the murmuring pine,
O Singer of the field and fold!

Thou sang'st the simple feasts of old,—
The beechen bowl made glad with wine. . . .
Thine was the happier Age of Gold.

Thou bad'st the rustic loves be told,―
Thou bad'st the tuneful reeds combine,
O Singer of the field and fold!

And round thee, ever-laughing, rolled
The blithe and blue Sicilian brine.
Thine was the happier Age of Gold.

Alas for us! Our songs are cold;
Our Northern suns too sadly shine:-
O Singer of the field and fold,
Thine was the happier Age of Gold!

Austin Dobson

"WHEN I SAW YOU LAST, ROSE"

When I saw you last, Rose,

You were only so high;-
How fast the time goes!

"Ah me, but it might have been! Was there ever so dismal a fate?". Quoth the little blue mandarin

"Such a maid as was never seen! She passed, tho' I cried to her, 'Wait,'Ah me, but it might have been!

"I cried, 'O my Flower, my Queen, Be mine!' 'Twas precipitate," Quoth the little blue mandarin,

"But then... she was just sixteen,— Long-eyed, as a lily straight,Ah me, but it might have been!