Prince of sweet songs made out of tears and fire, A harlot was thy nurse, a God thy sire; Shame soiled thy song, and song assoiled thy shame. But from thy feet now death has washed the mire, Love reads out first at head of all our quire, Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name. PASTICHE Now the days are all gone over Of our singing, love by lover, Days of summer-coloured seas Blown adrift through beam and breeze. Now the nights are all past over Of our dreaming, dreams that hover In a mist of fair false things, Nights afloat on wide wan wings. Now the loves with faith for mother, Now the fears with hope for brother, Scarce are with us as strange words, Notes from songs of last year's birds. Now all good that comes or goes is As the smell of last year's roses, As the radiance in our eyes Shot from summer's ere he dies. Now the morning faintlier risen Seems no God come forth of prison, But a bird of plume-plucked wing, Pale with thoughts of evening. Now hath hope, outraced in running, Given the torch up of his cunning And the palm he thought to wear Even to his own strong child--despair. BEFORE SUNSET In the lower lands of day On the hither side of night, There is nothing that will stay, There are all things soft to sight; Lighted shade and shadowy light In the wayside and the way, Hours the sun has spared to smite, Flowers the rain has left to play. Shall these hours run down and say No good thing of thee and me? Time that made us and will slay Laughs at love in me and thee; But if here the flowers may see One whole hour of amorous breath, Time shall die, and love shall be Lord as time was over death. SONG Love laid his sleepless head On a thorny rosy bed; And his eyes with tears were red, And pale his lips as the dead. And fear and sorrow and scorn Kept watch by his head forlorn, Till the night was overworn And the world was merry with morn. And Joy came up with the day And kissed Love's lips as he lay, And the watchers ghostly and grey Sped from his pillow away. And his eyes as the dawn grew bright, And his lips waxed ruddy as light: Sorrow may reign for a night, But day shall bring back delight. A VISION OF SPRING IN WINTER I O tender time that love thinks long to see, Sweet foot of spring that with her footfall sows Late snowlike flowery leavings of the snows, Be not too long irresolute to be; O mother-month, where have they hidden thee? Out of the pale time of the flowerless rose I reach my heart out toward the springtime lands, I stretch my spirit forth to the fair hours, The purplest of the prime; I lean my soul down over them, with hands Made wide to take the ghostly growths of flowers; I send my love back to the lovely time. II