 | Collected poems |  |
466
“ON LONDON STONES”
Lope de Vega and Hurtado de Mendoza wrote sonnets on
Sonnet-making; Voiture imitated them as regards the Rondeau.
Here is a paraphrase of Voiture:—
You bid me try, Blue-Eyes, to write
A Rondeau. What!—forthwith?—to-night?
Reflect. Some skill I have, 'tis true;—
But thirteen lines!—and rhymed on two!
“Refrain,” as well. Ah, hapless plight!
Still, there are five lines,—ranged aright.
These Gallic bonds, I feared, would fright
My easy Muse. They did, till you—
You bid me try!
[OMITTED]
That makes them eight. The port's in sight;—
'Tis all because your eyes are bright!
Now just a pair to end in “oo”—
When maids command, what can't we do!
Behold!—the Rondeau, tasteful, light,
You bid me try!
Lope de Vega and Hurtado de Mendoza wrote sonnets on Sonnet-making; Voiture imitated them as regards the Rondeau. Here is a paraphrase of Voiture:—
You bid me try, Blue-Eyes, to write
A Rondeau. What!—forthwith?—to-night?
Reflect. Some skill I have, 'tis true;—
But thirteen lines!—and rhymed on two!
“Refrain,” as well. Ah, hapless plight!
Still, there are five lines,—ranged aright.
These Gallic bonds, I feared, would fright
My easy Muse. They did, till you—
You bid me try!
[OMITTED] That makes them eight. The port's in sight;—
'Tis all because your eyes are bright!
Now just a pair to end in “oo”—
When maids command, what can't we do!
Behold!—the Rondeau, tasteful, light,
You bid me try!
A Rondeau. What!—forthwith?—to-night?
Reflect. Some skill I have, 'tis true;—
But thirteen lines!—and rhymed on two!
“Refrain,” as well. Ah, hapless plight!
Still, there are five lines,—ranged aright.
These Gallic bonds, I feared, would fright
My easy Muse. They did, till you—
You bid me try!
[OMITTED] That makes them eight. The port's in sight;—
'Tis all because your eyes are bright!
Now just a pair to end in “oo”—
When maids command, what can't we do!
Behold!—the Rondeau, tasteful, light,
You bid me try!
On London stones I sometimes sigh
For wider green and bluer sky;—
Too oft the trembling note is drowned
In this huge city's varied sound;—
“Pure song is country-born”—I cry.
For wider green and bluer sky;—
Too oft the trembling note is drowned
In this huge city's varied sound;—
“Pure song is country-born”—I cry.
Then comes the spring,—the months go by,
The last stray swallows seaward fly;
And I—I too!—no more am found
On London stones!
The last stray swallows seaward fly;
And I—I too!—no more am found
On London stones!
In vain!—the woods, the fields deny
That clearer strain I fain would try;
Mine is an urban Muse, and bound
By some strange law to paven ground;
Abroad she pouts;—she is not shy
On London stones!
That clearer strain I fain would try;
Mine is an urban Muse, and bound
By some strange law to paven ground;
Abroad she pouts;—she is not shy
On London stones!
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