How like a wounded villanelle,
Diminished, limps the poor rondeau,
Six lines cut short and made to go
In tight tetrameters as well.
Or deadened like a muted bell,
A muffled story tolled of woe,
A plangent, lonely, little knell,
Softly sounds the poor rondeau.
The aged poet in his cell
Is silent now and weeps to know
How once he traced the quick run doe
O’er wild mountain, dale and dell,
Now like a wounded villanelle.