Your rondeau’s tale must still be light—
No bugle-call to life’s stern fight!
Rather a smiling interlude
Memorial to some transient mood
Of idle love and gala-night.
Its manner is the merest sleight
O’ hand; yet therein dwells its might,
For if the heavier touch intrude
Your rondeau’s stale.
Fragrant and fragile, fleet and bright,
And wing’d with whim, it gleams in flight
Like April blossoms wind-pursued
Down aisles of tangled underwood;—
Nor be too serious when you write
Your rondeau’s tail!