Four deceased composers of the villanelle -
Auden, Bishop, Thomas, and Sylvia Plath -
meet for tea in Heaven and get along well.
They speak of prose and of verse, Don Juan and William Tell,
and recall some quips from Chaucer’s Wife of Bath.
Four former craftsmen of the villanelle
at length fall headlong into Burgundian spell
and cannot reckon their bill through drunken math.
But they laugh, make merry and love each other well,
now vomiting terza rima from Dante’s hell,
with ironic asides on Milton’s Satan’s wrath.
Four erstwhile wardens of the villanelle
stumble out of the inn through a starry dell,
slurring antique verb forms like dost and hath.
In alabaster beds they sleep quite well,
dreaming of words that rhyme with good and fell
and appraising each as meet, so-so, or daft.
Four quondam masters of the villanelle
forget themselves in each other and make themselves well.