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154
VILLANELLES.
I
Wouldst thou not be content to die
When low-hung fruit is hardly clinging,
And golden Autumn passes by?
When low-hung fruit is hardly clinging,
And golden Autumn passes by?
Beneath this delicate rose-gray sky,
While sunset bells are faintly ringing,
Wouldst thou not be content to die?
While sunset bells are faintly ringing,
Wouldst thou not be content to die?
For wintry webs of mist on high
Out of the muffled earth are springing,
And golden Autumn passes by.
Out of the muffled earth are springing,
And golden Autumn passes by.
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O now when pleasures fade and fly,
And Hope her southward flight is winging,
Wouldst thou not be content to die?
And Hope her southward flight is winging,
Wouldst thou not be content to die?
Lest Winter come, with wailing cry
His cruel icy bondage bringing,
When golden Autumn hath passed by.
His cruel icy bondage bringing,
When golden Autumn hath passed by.
And thou, with many a tear and sigh,
While life her wasted hands is wringing,
Shalt pray in vain for leave to die
When golden Autumn hath passed by.
While life her wasted hands is wringing,
Shalt pray in vain for leave to die
When golden Autumn hath passed by.
I
Little mistress mine, good-bye!
I have been your sparrow true;
Dig my grave, for I must die.
I have been your sparrow true;
Dig my grave, for I must die.
156
Waste no tear and heave no sigh;
Life should still be blithe for you,
Little mistress mine, good-bye!
Life should still be blithe for you,
Little mistress mine, good-bye!
In your garden let me lie,
Underneath the pointed yew
Dig my grave, for I must die.
Underneath the pointed yew
Dig my grave, for I must die.
We have loved the quiet sky
With its tender arch of blue;
Little mistress mine, good-bye!
With its tender arch of blue;
Little mistress mine, good-bye!
That I still may feel you nigh,
In your virgin bosom, too,
Dig my grave, for I must die.
In your virgin bosom, too,
Dig my grave, for I must die.
Let our garden-friends that fly
Be the mourners, fit and few.
Little mistress mine, good-bye!
Dig my grave, for I must die.
Be the mourners, fit and few.
Little mistress mine, good-bye!
Dig my grave, for I must die.
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