 | The pink book |  |
A VILLANELLE.
Many times it hath been said
By the melancholy wise,
“None are happy but the dead.”
By the melancholy wise,
“None are happy but the dead.”
Falsely ring such words, if read
Where the throstle calls and cries,
And the sun shines overhead.
Where the throstle calls and cries,
And the sun shines overhead.
Most might murmur, being led
Past the world's calamaties,
“None are happy but the dead.”
Past the world's calamaties,
“None are happy but the dead.”
18
Yet, with pleasaunce newly wed,
Life laughs up into the skies,
When the sun shines overhead.
Life laughs up into the skies,
When the sun shines overhead.
Here in travail one doth tread
The rough ways, and faints and dies.
None are happy but the dead!
The rough ways, and faints and dies.
None are happy but the dead!
There is merry childhood sped,
Chasing meadow butterflies,
And the sun shines overhead.
Chasing meadow butterflies,
And the sun shines overhead.
And we moan by a death-bed,
“See the smile, the quiet eyes,
None are happy but the dead!”
“See the smile, the quiet eyes,
None are happy but the dead!”
O the singings that arise
When the sun shines overhead!
O the weariness that sighs,
“None are happy but the dead!”
When the sun shines overhead!
O the weariness that sighs,
“None are happy but the dead!”
| The pink book | |