François Villon was a French poet, thief, and vagabond. He is perhaps best known for his Testaments and his Ballade des Pendus, written while in prison. The question "Mais où sont les neiges d'antan?", taken from the Ballade des dames du temps jadis and translated by Dante Gabriel Rossetti as "Where are the snows of yesteryear?", is one of the most famous lines of translated secular poetry in the English-speaking world.
Villon's real surname has been a matter of dispute; he has been called François de Montcorbier and François Des Loges and other names, though in literature Villon is the sole name used. Villon was born in 1431, almost certainly ... more »
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François Villon Poems
I know flies in milk I know the man by his clothes I know fair weather from foul I know the apple by the tree
Ballad Of The Ladies Of Yore
Tell me where, in what country, Is Flora the beautiful Roman, Archipiada or Thais Who was first cousin to her once,
The Debate Between Villon And His Heart
Who's that I hear?—It's me—Who?—Your heart Hanging on by the thinnest thread I lose all my strength, substance, and fluid When I see you withdrawn this way all alone
The Ballad Of The Proverbs
So rough the goat will scratch, it cannot sleep. So often goes the pot to the well that it breaks. So long you heat iron, it will glow; so heavily you hammer it, it shatters.
Ballade To Our Lady
WRITTEN FOR HIS MOTHER Dame du ciel, regents terrienne, Emperiere des infemaux palus....
Villon’s Epitaph (Ballade of the Hanged ...
O brother men who after us remain, Do not look coldly on the scene you view, For if you pity wretchedness and pain,
Epitaph In The Form Of A Ballade
Freres humains qui apres nous vivez, N'ayez les coeurs contre nous endurcis ... Men, brother men, that after us yet live, Let not your hearts too hard against us be;
Le Testament: Ballade: Pour Robert d'Est...
A t dawn of day, when falcon shakes his wing, M ainly from pleasure, and from noble usage, B lackbirds too shake theirs then as they sing, R eceiving their mates, mingling their plumage,
Ballade: Du Concours De Blois
I'm dying of thirst beside the fountain, Hot as fire, and with chattering teeth: In my own land, I'm in a far domain: Near the flame, I shiver beyond belief
I have a tree, a graft of Love, That in my heart has taken root; Sad are the buds and blooms thereof, And bitter sorrow is its fruit;
Le Testament: Les Regrets De La Belle He...
By chance, I heard the belle complain, The one we called the Armouress, Longing to be a girl again, Talking like this, more or less:
Princess, by whom my hope is fed, My heart thee prays in lowlihead To prune the ill boughs overgrown, Nor slay Love's tree, nor plant instead
The Ballad of Villon and Fat Madge
What though the beauty I love and serve be cheap, Ought you to take me for a beast or fool? All things a man could wish are in her keep; For her I turn swashbuckler in love's school.
Have pity now, have pity now on me, If you at least would, friends of mine. I'm in the depths, not holly or may, In exile, where I've been consigned
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
I know flies in milk
I know the man by his clothes
I know fair weather from foul
I know the apple by the tree
I know the tree when I see the sap
I know when all is one
I know who labors and who loafs
I know everything but myself.
I know the coat by the collar
I know the monk by the cowl
I know the master by the servant
I know the nun by the veil
I know when a hustler rattles on
I know fools raised on whipped cream
I know the wine by the barrel
I know everything but myself.
I know the horse and the mule
I know their loads and their ...