One speaks unto me words that would be sweet, Made harsh, made keen with love that knows me not, And some strange force, within me or around, Makes answer, kiss for kiss, and sigh for sigh, And somewhere there is fever in the halls, That troubles me, for no such trouble came To vex the cool far hollows of the hills. The foolish folk crowd round me, and they cry, That house, and wife, and lands, and all Troy town, Are little to lose, if they may keep me here, And see me flit, a pale and silent shade, Among the streets bereft, and helpless shrines. At other hours another life seems mine, Where one great river runs unswollen of rain, By pyramids of unremembered kings, And homes of men obedient to the Dead. There dark and quiet faces come and go Around me, then again the shriek of arms, And all the turmoil of the Ilian men. What are they? Even shadows such as I. What make they? Even this—the sport of Gods— The sport of Gods, however free they seem. Ah would the game were ended, and the light, The blinding light, and all too mighty suns, Withdrawn, and I once more with sister shades, Unloved, forgotten, mingled with the mist, Dwelt in the hollows of the shadowy hills. Ah, would ‘t were the cloud’s playtime, when the sun Clothes us in raiment of a rosy flame, And through the sky we flit, and gather grey, Like men that leave their golden youth behind, And through their wind-driven ways they gather grey, And we like them grow wan, and the chill East Receives us, as the Earth accepts all men,— But _we_ await the dawn of a new day. SONNETS TO POETS. JACQUES TAHUREAU. 1530. AH thou! that, undeceived and unregretting, Saw’st Death so near thee on the flowery way, And with no sigh that life was near the setting, Took’st the delight and dalliance of the day, Happy thou wert, to live and pass away Ere life or love had done thee any wrong; Ere thy wreath faded, or thy locks grew grey, Or summer came to lull thine April song, Sweet as all shapes of sweet things unfulfilled, Buds bloomless, and the broken violet, The first spring days, the sounds and scents thereof; So clear thy fire of song, so early chilled, So brief, so bright thy life that gaily met Death, for thy Death came hand in hand with Love. FRANÇOIS VILLON. 1450. List, all that love light mirth, light tears, and all That know the heart of shameful loves, or pure; That know delights depart, desires endure, A fevered tribe of ghosts funereal, Widowed of dead delights gone out of call; List, all that deem the glory of the rose Is brief as last year’s suns, or last year’s snows The new suns melt from off the sundial.