Many a pipe and scrannel flute
On the breeze their discords fling;
Villanelle, why art THOU mute?
Sound of tumult and dispute,
Noise of war the echoes bring;
Hath the Master lost his lute?
Once he sang of bud and shoot
In the season of the Spring;
Villanelle, why art thou mute?
Fading leaf and falling fruit
Say, “The year is on the wing,
Hath the Master lost his lute?”
Ere the axe lie at the root,
Ere the winter come as king,
Villanelle, why art thou mute?
Hath the Master lost his lute?