Sound of tumult and dispute,
Noise of war the echoes bring;
Hath the Master lost his lute?
Once he sang of bud and shoot
In the season of the Spring;
Villanelle, why art thou mute?
Fading leaf and falling fruit
Say, “The year is on the wing,
Hath the Master lost his lute?”
Ere the axe lie at the root,
Ere the winter come as king,
Villanelle, why art thou mute?
Hath the Master lost his lute?
TRIOLETS AFTER MOSCHUS.
Αιαῖ ταὶ μαλάχαι μὲν ἐπὰν κατὰ κᾶπον ὄλωντα
ὕστερον αὖ ζώοντι καὶ εἰς ἔτος ἄλλο φύοντι
ἄμμες δ’ ὁι μεγάλοι καὶ καρτεροί, οἱ σοφοὶ ἄνδες
ὁππότε πρᾶτα θάνωμες, ἀνάκοοι ἐν χθονὶ κοίλᾳ,
εὕδομες εὖ μάλα μακρὸν ἀτέρμονα νήγρετον ὕπνον.
Alas, for us no second spring,
Like mallows in the garden-bed,
For these the grave has lost his sting,
Alas, for us no second spring,
Who sleep without awakening,
And, dead, for ever more are dead,
Alas, for us no second spring,
Like mallows in the garden-bed!
Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave,
That boast themselves the sons of men!
Once they go down into the grave—
Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave,—
They perish and have none to save,
They are sown, and are not raised again;
Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave,
That boast themselves the sons of men!
BALLADE OF CRICKET.
TO T. W. LANG.