We, the children of Astarte, Dear abortions of the moon, In a gay and silent party, We are riding to you soon. Burning ramparts, ever burning! To the flame which never dies We are yearning, yearning, yearning, With our gay and tearless eyes. In the plain without a pity, (Not an hamlet, not a city) Where the wan grass droops and dies. VILLANELLE OF THE POET'S ROAD Wine and woman and song, Three things garnish our way: Yet is day over long. Lest we do our youth wrong, Gather them while we may: Wine and woman and song. Three things render us strong, Vine leaves, kisses and bay; Yet is day over long. Unto us they belong, Us the bitter and gay, Wine and woman and song. We, as we pass along, Are sad that they will not stay; Yet is day over long. Fruits and flowers among, What is better than they: Wine and woman and song? Yet is day over long. VILLANELLE OF ACHERON By the pale marge of Acheron, Me thinks we shall pass restfully, Beyond the scope of any sun. There all men hie them one by one, Far from the stress of earth and sea, By the pale marge of Acheron. 'Tis well when life and love is done, 'Tis very well at last to be, Beyond the scope of any sun. No busy voices there shall stun Our ears: the stream flows silently By the pale marge of Acheron. There is the crown of labour won, The sleep of immortality, Beyond the scope of any sun. Life, of thy gifts I will have none, My queen is that Persephone, By the pale marge of Acheron, Beyond the scope of any sun. SAINT GERMAIN-EN-LAYE (1887-1895) Through the green boughs I hardly saw thy face, They twined so close: the sun was in mine eyes; And now the sullen trees in sombre lace Stand bare beneath the sinister, sad skies. O sun and summer! Say in what far night, The gold and green, the glory of thine head, Of bough and branch have fallen? Oh, the white Gaunt ghosts that flutter where thy feet have sped, Across the terrace that is desolate, And rang then with thy laughter, ghost of thee, That holds its shroud up with most delicate, Dead fingers, and behind the ghost of me, Tripping fantastic with a mouth that jeers At roseal flowers of youth the turbid streams Toss in derision down the barren years To death the host of all our golden dreams. AFTER PAUL VERLAINE I _Il pleut doucement sur la ville_.--RIMBAUD Tears fall within mine heart, As rain upon the town: Whence does this languor start, Possessing all mine heart? O sweet fall of the rain Upon the earth and roofs! Unto an heart in pain, O music of the rain! Tears that have no reason Fall in my sorry heart: What! there was no treason? This grief hath no reason. Nay! the more desolate, Because, I know not why, (Neither for love nor hate) Mine heart is desolate. II COLLOQUE SENTIMENTAL