July 

And borne me from the silent shadowy hills, To harsh and clamorous swords, and sound of war? One speaks unto me words that would be sweet, And some strange force, within me or around, And somewhere there is fever in the halls, To vex the cool far hollows of the hills. The foolish folk crowd round me, and they cry, Are little to lose, if they may keep me here, Among the streets bereft, and helpless shrines. At other hours another life.html">life.html">life seems mine, By pyramids of unremembered kings, There dark and quiet faces come and go And all the turmoil of the Ilian men.html">men. What make they? Even this--the sport of Gods - Ah would the game were ended, and the light, Withdrawn, and I once more with sister shades, Dwelt in the hollows of the shadowy hills. Clothes us in raiment of a rosy flame, Like men that leave their golden youth behind, And we like them grow wan, and the chill East But WE await the dawn of a new day. JACQUES TAHUREAU. 1530. Ah thou.html">thou! that, undeceived and unregretting, And with no sigh that life was near the setting, Happy thou wert, to live and pass away Ere thy wreath faded, or thy locks grew grey, Sweet as all shapes of sweet things unfulfilled, The first spring days, the sounds and scents thereof; So brief, so bright thy life that gaily met That know the heart of shameful loves, or pure; A fevered tribe of ghosts funereal, List, all that deem the glory of the rose The new suns melt from off the sundial. All this your master Villon knew and sung; And shame, a deathless worm, a quenchless fire; .

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