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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
BALLADE OF FRANCOIS VILLON, AS HE WAS ABOUT TO DIE, by JOHN D. SWAIN Poem Explanation First Line: I, francois villon, ta'en at last Last Line: They are the things which I regret! Variant Title(s): Would I Be Shrived? | |||
I, FRANCOIS VILLON, ta'en at last To this rude bed where all must lie, Fain would forget the turbid past And lay me down in peace to die. "Would I be shrived?" Ah, can I tell? My sins but trifles seem to be, Nor worth the dignity of hell; If not, then ill avails to me To name them one and all -- and yet -- There be some things which I regret! The sack of abbeys, many a brawl, A score of knife thrusts in the dark, Forced oft, by Fate, against the wall, And years in donjons, cold and stark -- These crimes and pains seem far away Now that I come at length to die; 'Tis idle for the past to pray, 'Tis hopeless for the past to sigh: These are a troubled dream -- and yet -- For them I have but scant regret! The toil my mother lived to know, What years I lay in gyves for debt; A pretty song heard long ago: Where, I know not; when, I forget; The crust I once kept for my own (Though all too scant for my poor use.) The friend I left to die alone, (Pardie! the watchman pressed us close!) Trifles against my crimes to set! Yet these are all which I regret. Captains and cutthroats, not a few, And maidens fair of many a clime Have named me friend in the wild past When as we wallowed in the slime; Gamblers and rogues and clever thieves, And unfrocked priests, a sorry crew, (How stubbornly the memory cleaves To all who have befriended you!) I drain a cup to them -- and yet -- 'Tis not for such I feel regret! My floundered horse, who died for me (Nor whip nor spur was his, I ween!) That day the hangman looked to see Poor Villon earth and sky between! A mongrel cur who shared my lot Three bitter winters on the Ile: He held the rabble off, God wot, One time I cheated in the deal; 'Twas but an instant, while I fled Down a vile alley, known to me -- Back in the tavern he lay dead; The gamblers raged -- but I went free! Humble, poor brutes at best; and yet -- They are the friends whom I regret! And eke the lilies were a-blow Through all the sunny fields of France; I marked one whiter than the snow And would have gathered it, perchance, Had not some trifle, I forget, (A bishop's loot, a cask of wine Filched from some carbet -- a bet --) Distracted this wild head of mine. A childish fancy this, and yet -- It is a thing that I regret! Again I rode through Picardy What time the vine was in the bud; A little maiden smiled on me, I might have kissed her, and I would! I've known a thousand maidens since, And many have been kind to me -- I've never seen one quite so fair As she, that day in Picardy. Ashes of roses these -- and yet -- They are the things which I regret! One perfect lily grew for me, And blossomed on another's breast; Others have clasped the little hands Whose rosy palms I might have pressed; So, as I die, my wasted youth Mocks my dim eye and failing breath: -- Still, I have lived! and having lived That much is mine. I mock at Death! I should confess, you say? But yet -- For life alone I have regret. Envoy: O bubbles of the vanished wine To which my lips were never set! O lips that dimpled close to mine, Whose ruddy warmth I never met! Father, but trifles these, and yet -- They are the things which I regret! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE UNPARDONABLE SIN by NICHOLAS VACHEL LINDSAY THE HOUSE OF LIFE: 26. MID-RAPTURE by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI TO SPAIN - A LAST WORD by EDITH MATILDA THOMAS THE PROFESSION OF FLATTERY by ANTIPHANES |
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