Ere the axe lies at the root,
Ere the winter comes as king,
Villanelle, why art thou mute?
Hath the Master lost his lute!
Andrew Lang.
VILLANELLE.
(To the Nightingale in September.)
Child of the muses and the moon,
O nightingale, return and sing,
Thy song is over all too soon.
Let not night's quire yield place to noon,
To this red breast thy tawny wing,
Child of the muses and the moon.
Sing us once more the same sad tune
Pandion heard when he was king,
Thy song is over all too soon.
Night after night thro' leafy June
The stars were hush'd and listening,
Child of the muses and the moon.
Now new moons grow to plenilune
And wane, but no new music bring;
Thy song is over all too soon.
Ah, thou art weary! well, sleep on,
Sleep till the sun brings back the spring.
Thy song is over all too soon,
Child of the muses and the moon.