Le Jardin Des Tuileries
THIS winter air is keen and cold,And keen and cold this winter sun,But round my chair the children runLike little things of dancing gold.
Sometimes about the painted kioskThe mimic soldiers strut and stride,Sometimes the blue-eyed brigands hideIn the bleak tangles of the bosk.
And sometimes, while the old nurse consHer book, they steal across the square,And launch their paper navies whereHuge Triton writhes in greenish bronze.
And now in mimic flight they flee,And now they rush, a boisterous band—And, tiny hand on tiny hand,Climb up the black and leafless tree.
Ah! cruel tree! if I were you,And children climbed me, for their sakeThough it be winter I would breakInto spring blossoms white and blue!
PAN DOUBLE VILLANELLE
I.
O GOAT-FOOT God of Arcady!This modern world is grey and old,And what remains to us of thee?
No more the shepherd lads in gleeThrow apples at thy wattled fold,O goat-foot God of Arcady!
Nor through the laurels can one seeThy soft brown limbs, thy beard of goldAnd what remains to us of thee?
And dull and dead our Thames would be,For here the winds are chill and cold,O goat-loot God of Arcady!
Then keep the tomb of Helice,Thine olive-woods, thy vine-clad wold,And what remains to us of thee?
Though many an unsung elegySleeps in the reeds our rivers hold,O goat-foot God of Arcady!Ah, what remains to us of thee?
II.
AH, leave the hills of Arcady,Thy satyrs and their wanton play,This modern world hath need of thee.
No nymph or Faun indeed have we,For Faun and nymph are old and grey,Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
This is the land where libertyLit grave-browed Milton on his way,This modern world hath need of thee!
A land of ancient chivalryWhere gentle Sidney saw the day,Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
This fierce sea-lion of the sea,This England lacks some stronger lay,This modern world hath need of thee!
Then blow some trumpet loud and free,And give thine oaten pipe away,Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!This modern world hath need of thee!