Now your petals unclose, Now your May-time is nigh;-- How fast the time goes! And a life,--how it grows! You were scarcely so shy When I saw you last, Rose! In your bosom it shows There's a guest on the sly; How fast the time goes! Is it Cupid? Who knows! Yet you used not to sigh, When I saw you last, Rose;-- How fast the time goes! (AUSTIN DOBSON: _When I Saw You Last, Rose._) A dainty thing's the Villanelle. Sly, musical, a jewel in rhyme, It serves its purpose passing well. A double-clappered silver bell That must be made to clink in chime, A dainty thing's the Villanelle; And if you wish to flute a spell, Or ask a meeting 'neath the lime, It serves its purpose passing well. You must not ask of it the swell Of organs grandiose and sublime-- A dainty thing's the Villanelle; And, filled with sweetness, as a shell Is filled with sound, and launched in time, It serves its purpose passing well. Still fair to see and good to smell As in the quaintness of its prime, A dainty thing's the Villanelle, It serves its purpose passing well. (W. E. HENLEY: _Villanelle._) Wouldst thou not be content to die 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? For wintry webs of mist on high Out of the muffled earth are springing, And golden Autumn passes by. O now when pleasures fade and fly, 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; And thou with many a tear and sigh, While life her wasted hands is wringing, Shall pray in vain for leave to die When golden Autumn hath passed by. (EDMUND GOSSE: _Villanelle._) Spring knocks at winter's frosty door: In boughs by wild March breezes swayed The bonnie bluebirds sing once more. The brooks have burst their fetters hoar, And greet with noisy glee the glade; Spring knocks at winter's frosty door. The swallow soon will northward soar, The rush uplift its gleaming blade, The bonnie bluebirds sing once more. Soon sunny skies their gold will pour O'er meads that breezy maples shade; Spring knocks at winter's frosty door. Along the reedy river's shore, Fleet fauns will frolic unafraid, The bonnie bluebirds sing once more. And Love, the Love we lost of yore, Will come to twine the myrtle braid; Spring knocks at winter's frosty door, The bonnie bluebirds sing once more. (CLINTON SCOLLARD: _Spring Knocks at Winter's Frosty Door._) D.--THE TRIOLET