The Kyrielle, Pantoum, and Rondeau Redouble.

Qui voudra sçavoir la pratique De cette rime juridique, Je dis que bien mise en effet La Kyrielle ainsi se fait. De plante de sillabes huit Usez en donc si bien vous duit; Pour faire le couplet parfait La Kirielle ainsi si fait.

A lark in the mesh of the tangled vine, A bee that drowns in the flower-cup's wine, A fly in the sunshine,—such is man. All things must end, as all began. A little pain, a little pleasure, A little heaping up of treasure; Then no more gazing upon the sun. All things must end that have begun. Where is the time for hope or doubt? A puff of the wind, and life is out; A turn of the wheel, and rest is won. All things must end that have begun. Golden morning and purple night, Life that fails with the failing light; Death is the only deathless one. All things must end that have begun. Ending waits on the brief beginning; Is the prize worth the stress of winning? E'en in the dawning the day is done. All things must end that have begun. Weary waiting and weary striving, Glad outsetting and sad arriving; What is it worth when the goal is won? All things must end that have begun. Speedily fades the morning glitter; Love grows irksome and wine grows bitter. Two are parted from what was one. All things must end that have begun. Toil and pain and the evening rest; Joy is weary and sleep is best; Fair and softly the day is done. All things must end that have begun.

In the tent the lamps were bright; Out beyond the summer night Thrilled and quivered like a star: We beneath were left so far. From the depths of blue profound Never any sight or sound Came our loneliness to mar: We beneath were left so far. But against the summer sky Only you stood out and I; From all other things that are We beneath were left so far.

In spring Love came, a welcome guest, And tarried long at my behest; Now autumn wanes, the skies are grey But loyal Love flees not away. I charmed him with melodious lays Through long rose-scented summer days; My songs no more are clear and gay But loyal Love flees not away. We plucked and twined the myrtle flowers, Made joyance in the sylvan bowers; The blooms have died, wild winds hold sway, But loyal Love flees not away. Gone are the fifing crickets, gone The feathered harbingers of dawn, And gone the woodland's bright display, But loyal Love flees not away. With intermingled light and shade The shifting seasons come and fade; Our fond hopes fail, false friends betray, But loyal Love flees not away!

Toiling in Town now is "horrid" (There is that woman again!)— June in the zenith is torrid, Thought gets dry in the brain. There is that woman again: "Strawberries! fourpence a pottle!" Thought gets dry in the brain; Ink gets dry in the bottle. "Strawberries! fourpence a pottle!" Oh for the green of a lane!— Ink gets dry in the bottle; "Buzz" goes a fly in the pane! Oh for the green of a lane, Where one might lie and be lazy! "Buzz" goes a fly in the pane; Bluebottles drive me crazy! Where one might lie and be lazy, Careless of Town and all in it!— Bluebottles drive me crazy: I shall go mad in a minute! Careless of Town and all in it, With some one to soothe and to still you; I shall go mad in a minute, Bluebottle, then I shall kill you! With some one to soothe and to still you, As only one's feminine kin do,— Bluebottle, then I shall kill you: There now! I've broken the window! As only one's feminine kin do,— Some muslin-clad Mabel or May!— There now! I've broken the window! Bluebottle's off and away! Some muslin-clad Mabel or May, To dash one with eau de Cologne;— Bluebottle's off and away, And why should I stay here alone? To dash one with eau de Cologne, All over one's eminent forehead; And why should I stay here alone? Toiling in Town now is "horrid."

Morn and noon and night, Here I lie in the ground; No faintest glimmer of light, No lightest whisper of sound. Here I lie in the ground; The worms glide out and in; No lightest whisper of sound, After a life-long din. The worms glide out and in; They are fruitful and multiply; After a life-long din, I watch them quietly. They are fruitful and multiply, My body dwindles the while; I watch them quietly; I can scarce forbear a smile. My body dwindles the while, I shall soon be a skeleton; I can scarce forbear a smile They have had such glorious fun. I shall soon be a skeleton, The worms are wriggling away; They have had such glorious fun, They will fertilise my clay. The worms are wriggling away, They are what I have been, They will fertilise my clay. The grass will grow more green. They are what I have been. I shall change, but what of that? The grass will grow more green, The parson's sheep grow fat. I shall change, but what of that? All flesh is grass, one says, The parson's sheep grow fat, The parson grows in grace. All flesh is grass, one says, Grass becomes flesh, one knows, The parson grows in grace; I am the grace he grows. Grass becomes flesh, one knows, He grows like a bull of Bashan. I am the grace he grows; I startle his congregation. He grows like a bull of Bashan, One day he'll be Bishop or Dean, I startle his congregation: One day I shall preach to the Q—n. One day he'll be Bishop or Dean, One of those science-haters; One day I shall preach to the Q—n. To think of my going in gaiters! One of those science-haters, Blind as a mole or bat; To think of my going in gaiters, And wearing a shovel hat! Blind as a mole or bat, No faintest glimmer of light, And wearing a shovel hat, Morning and noon and night.

The wind brings up the hawthorn's breath. The sweet airs ripple up the lake: My soul, my soul is sick to death, My heart, my heart is like to break. The sweet airs ripple up the lake, I hear the thin woods' fluttering: My heart, my heart is like to break; What part have I, alas! in spring? I hear the thin woods' fluttering; The brake is brimmed with linnet-song: What part have I, alas! in spring? For me, heart's winter is life-long. The brake is brimmed with linnet song; Clear carols flutter through the trees; For me heart's winter is life-long; I cast my sighs on every breeze. Clear carols flutter through the trees; The new year hovers like a dove: I cast my sighs on every breeze; Spring is no spring, forlorn of love. The new year hovers like a dove Above the breast of the green earth: Spring is no spring, forlorn of love; Alike to me are death and birth. Above the breast of the green earth The soft sky flutters like a flower: Alike to me are death and birth; I dig Love's grave in every hour. The soft sky flutters like a flower Along the glory of the hills: I dig Love's grave in every hour, I hear Love's dirge in all the rills. Along the glory of the hills Flowers slope into a rim of gold: I hear Love's dirge in all the rills; Sad singings haunt me as of old. Flowers slope into a rim of gold Along the marges of the sky: Sad singings haunt me as of old; Shall Love come back to me to die? Along the marges of the sky The birds wing homeward from the East: Shall Love come back to me to die? Shall Hope relive, once having ceas'd? The birds wing homeward from the East; I smell spice-breaths upon the air: Shall Hope relive, once having ceas'd? It would lie black on my despair. I smell spice-breaths upon the air; The golden Orient savours pass: Hope would lie black on my despair, Like a moon-shadow on the grass. The golden Orient savours pass: The full spring throbs in all the shade: Like a moon-shadow on the grass, My hope into the dusk would fade. The full spring throbs in all the shade; We shall have roses soon, I trow; My hope into the dusk would fade; Bring lilies on Love's grave to strow. We shall have roses soon I trow; Soon will the rich red poppies burn: Bring lilies on Love's grave to strow: My hope is fled beyond return. Soon will the rich red poppies burn; Soon will blue iris star the stream: My hope is fled beyond return; Have my eyes tears for my waste dream? Soon will blue iris star the stream; Summer will turn the air to wine: Have my eyes tears for my waste dream? Can songs come from these lips of mine? Summer will turn the air to wine, So full and sweet the mid-spring flowers: Can songs come from those lips of mine? My thoughts are grey as winter hours. So full and sweet the mid-spring flowers. The wind brings up the hawthorn's breath; My thoughts are grey as winter hours; My soul, my soul is sick to death.

Here we are riding the rail, Gliding from out of the station; Man though I am, I am pale, Certain of heat and vexation. Gliding from out of the station, Out from the city we thrust; Certain of heat and vexation, Sure to be covered with dust. Out from the city we thrust: Rattling we run o'er the bridges: Sure to be covered with dust, Stung by a thousand of midges. Rattling we dash o'er the bridges, Rushing we dash o'er the plain; Stung by a thousand of midges, Certain precursors of rain. Rushing we dash o'er the plain, Watching the clouds darkly lowering, Certain precursors of rain: Fields about here need a showering. Watching the clouds darkly lowering,— Track here is high on a bank— Fields about here need a showering, Boy with the books needs a spank. Track here is high on a bank, Just by a wretched old hovel: Boy with the books needs a spank— "No! I don't want a new novel!" Just by a wretched old hovel, Small speck of dust in my eye. "No! I don't want a new novel!" —Babies beginning to cry.— Small speck of dust in my eye, "I will not buy papers or candy!" —Babies beginning to cry—. Oh, for a tomahawk handy! "I will not buy papers or candy!" Train boys deserve to be slain; Oh, for a tomahawk handy! Oh, for the cool of the rain! Train boys deserve to be slain, Heat and the dust—they are choking Oh, for the cool of the rain! —"Gent" just behind me is joking. Heat and the dust, they are choking, Clogging and filling my pores; —"Gent" just behind me is joking, "Gent" just in front of me snores. Clogging and filling my pores, Ears are on edge at the rattle; "Gent" just in front of me snores, Sounds like the noise of a battle. Ears are on edge at the rattle, Man tho' I am, I am pale, Sounds like the noise of a battle, Here we are riding the rail.

She oped the portal of the palace, She stole into the garden's gloom; From every spotless snowy chalice The lilies breathed a sweet perfume. She stole into the garden's gloom, She thought that no one would discover; The lilies breathed a sweet perfume, She swiftly ran to meet her lover. She thought that no one would discover, But footsteps followed ever near; She swiftly ran to meet her lover Beside the fountain crystal clear. But footsteps followed ever near; Ah, who is that she sees before her Beside the fountain crystal clear? 'Tis not her hazel-eyed adorer. Ah, who is that she sees before her, His hand upon his scimitar? 'Tis not her hazel-eyed adorer, It is her lord of Candahar! His hand upon his scimitar— Alas, what brought such dread disaster! It is her lord of Candahar, The fierce Sultan, her lord and master. Alas, what brought such dread disaster! "Your pretty lover's dead!" he cries— The fierce Sultan, her lord and master— "'Neath yonder tree his body lies." "Your pretty lover's dead!" he cries— (A sudden, ringing voice behind him); "'Neath yonder tree his body lies—" "Die, lying dog! go thou and find him!" A sudden, ringing voice behind him, A deadly blow, a moan of hate, "Die, lying dog! go thou and find him! Come, love, our steeds are at the gate!" A deadly blow, a moan of hate, His blood ran red as wine in chalice; "Come, love, our steeds are at the gate!" She oped the portal of the palace.

My soul is sick of nightingale and rose, The perfume and the darkness of the grove; I weary of the fevers and the throes, And all the enervating dreams of love. At morn I love to hear the lark, and rove The meadows, where the simple daisy shows Her guiltless bosom to the skies above— My soul is sick of nightingale and rose. The afternoon is sweet, and sweet repose, But let me lie where breeze-blown branches move. I hate the stillness where the sunbeams doze, The perfume and the darkness of the grove. I love to hear at eve the gentle dove Contented coo the day's delightful close. She sings of love and all the calm thereof,— I weary of the fevers and the throes. I love the night, who like a mother throws Her arms round hearts that throbbed and limbs that strove, As kind as Death, that puts an end to woes And all the enervating dreams of love. Because my soul is sick of fancies wove Of fervid ecstasies and crimson glows; Because the taste of cinnamon and clove Palls on my palate—let no man suppose My soul is sick.

My day and night are in my lady's hand; I have no other sunrise than her sight; For me her favour glorifies the land; Her anger darkens all the cheerful light. Her face is fairer than the hawthorn white, When all a-flower in May the hedgerows stand; While she is kind, I know of no affright; My day and night are in my lady's hand. All heaven in her glorious eyes is spanned; Her smile is softer than the summer's night, Gladder than daybreak on the Faery strand; I have no other sunrise than her sight. Her silver speech is like the singing flight Of runnels rippling o'er the jewelled sand; Her kiss a dream of delicate delight; For me her favour glorifies the land. What if the Winter chase the Summer bland! The gold sun in her hair burns ever bright. If she be sad, straightway all joy is banned; Her anger darkens all the cheerful light. Come weal or woe, I am my lady's knight And in her service every ill withstand; Love is my Lord in all the world's despite And holdeth in the hollow of his hand My day and night.

O goddess sweet, give ear unto my prayer. Come with thy doves across the briny sea, Leave thy tall fanes and thy rose gardens rare, From cruel bondage set thy vot'ress free! Ah how my heart would joy again to be Like chirming bird that cleaves the sunny air, Like wildwood roe that bounds in ecstasy; O goddess sweet, give ear unto my prayer! That I am innocent hast thou no care Of crime against celestial deity? Must I the fate of lovely Lotis share?— Come with thy doves across the briny sea! I hear no waters' silvern melody, And yet the rippling water once was there, And on its bloomy banks I worshipped thee;— Leave thy tall fanes and thy rose gardens rare! Could I but feel my boy's hands on my hair, Could I but kiss my sister Iole, Then bravely would I cast forth chill despair, From cruel bondage set thy vot'ress free! I, who was once the blithesome Dryope, Am now a tree bole, cold and brown and bare; Pity, I pray, my ceaseless agony, Or grant forgetfulness of all things fair, O goddess sweet.

I will go hence, and seek her, my old Love; All bramble-laced, and moss-grown is the way, There is no sun, nor broad, red moon above, The year is old, he said, and skies are grey. The rose-wreaths fade, the viols are not gay, That which seemed sweet doth passing bitter prove; So sweet she was, she will not say me nay— I will go hence and seek her, my old Love. Low, labouring sighs stirred coldly through the grove, Where buds unblossomed on the mosses lay; His upraised hands the dusky tangle clove, "All bramble-laced and moss-grown is the way!" With grievous eyes, and lips that smiled alway, Strange, flitting shapes, wreathed round him as he strove Their spectral arms, and filmy green array; There was no sun, nor broad red moon above. Here lies her lute—and here her slender glove; (Her bower well won, sweet joy shall crown the day); But her he saw not, vanished was his Love, The year is old, he said, and skies are grey. The wrong was mine! he cried. I left my dove (He flung him down upon the weeping clay), And now I find her flown—ah wellaway! The house is desolate that held my Love, I will go hence.

To thee, fair Isle, Italia's satellite, Italian harps their native measures lend; Yet, wooing sweet diversity, not quite Thy octaves with Italia's octaves blend. Six streaming lines amass the arrowy might In hers, one cataract couplet doth expend; Thine lake-wise widens, level in the light, And like to its beginning is its end.

To thee 'tis pleasure, haply to have brought Home precious ware from China or Japan; And thine, when keen and long pursuit hath caught Strange bird, or Psyche gay with veinèd fan— And thine, to spell some sentence wisdom-fraught In palimpest or Arab alcoran; And mine, to seize some rare and coloured thought And cage it in my verse Sicilian.