VILLANELLE.
The air is white with snow-flakes clinging;
Between the gusts that come and go
Methinks I hear the woodlark singing.
Methinks I see the primrose springing
On many a bank and hedge, although
The air is white with snow-flakes clinging.
Surely the hands of spring are flinging
Woodscents to all the winds that blow.
Methinks I hear the woodlark singing;
Methinks I see the swallow winging
Across the woodlands sad with snow;
The air is white with snow-flakes clinging.
Was that the cuckoo's wood-chime swinging?
Was that the linnet fluting low?
Methinks I hear the woodlark singing.
Or can it be the breeze is bringing
The breath of violets?—Ah no!
The air is white with snow-flakes clinging.
It is my lady's voice that's stringing
Its beads of gold to song; and so
Methinks I hear the woodlark singing.
The violets I see upspringing
Are in my lady's eyes, I trow;
The air is white with snow-flakes clinging.
Dear, when thy tender tones are ringing,
Even whilst amid the winter's woe
The air is white with snow-flakes clinging,
Methinks I hear the woodlark singing.