The compulsory one

And here's the villanelle by Dylan Thomas, which you're required by law to recite every time you utter the word "villanelle" in an anglophone county:
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Do not go gentle into that good night

By Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

The one I personally like best

I once read somewhere that the villanelle was originally supposed to be a light flirtatious poem, but barely any English villanelle even appear to try that.  Today's poem at least has a light tone, which I absolutely love:
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One Art

By Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:

places, and names, and where it was you meant

to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or

next-to-last, of three beloved houses went.

The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.

I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident

the art of losing's not too hard to master

though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster.

Where I have to go

The second good English villanelle on this week's list is this famous one:
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The Waking

By Theodore Roethke

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.

I learn by going where I have to go.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?

I hear my being dance from ear to ear.

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Of those so close beside me, which are you?

God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,

And learn by going where I have to go.

Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?

The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Great Nature has another thing to do

To you and me, so take the lively air,

And, lovely, learn by going where to go.

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.

What falls away is always. And is near.

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

I learn by going where I have to go.

Perhaps the roses really want to grow

Jim told us last year that only 5 good villanelle have been written in English so far.  I'm posting all five this week  :)  Here's one:
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Villanelle

By W.H. Auden

Time can say nothing but I told you so,

Time only knows the price we have to pay;

If I could tell you, I would let you know.

If we should weep when clowns put on their show,

If we should stumble when musicians play,

Time can say nothing but I told you so.

There are no fortunes to be told, although

Because I love you more than I can say,

If I could tell you, I would let you know.

The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,

There must be reasons why the leaves decay;

Time can say nothing but I told you so.

Perhaps the roses really want to grow,

The vision seriously intends to stay;

If I could tell you, I would let you know.

Suppose the lions all get up and go,

And all the brooks and soldiers run away?

Time can say nothing but I told you so.

If I could tell you, I would let you know. 

Ein noch aelteres Brunnensonett

Language and form change coming up tomorrow.

But before that, here's another sonnet---again about a fountain---and this one's so old, it's by Martin Opitz (early 17th century):
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Vom Wolffesbrunnen bei Heidelberg

Von Martin Opitz

DV edler Brunnen du / mit Rhu vnd Lust vmbgeben

Mit Bergen hier vnd da als einer Burg vmbringt /

Printz aller schönen Quell' / aus welchem Wasser dringt

Anmutiger dann Milch / vnnd köstlicher dann Reben /

Da vnsres Landes Kron' vnd Häupt mit seinem Leben /

Der werthen Nymph' / offt selbst die lange Zeit verbringt /

Da das Geflügel jhr zu Ehren lieblich singt /

Da nur Ergetzlichkeit vnd keusche Wollust schweben /

Vergeblich bist du nicht in dieses grüne Thal

Beschlossen von Gebirg' vnd Klippen vberall:

Die künstliche Natur hat darumb dich vmbfangen

Mit Felsen vnd Gepüsch' / auff daß man wissen soll

Daß alle Fröligkeit sey Müh' vnd Arbeit voll /

Vnd daß auch nichts so schön / es sey schwer zu erlangen.

More water

Yesterday's poem is actually part of an older tradition (in German poetry, at least) of poems about things (Dinggedichte), even of a more specific tradition of poems about fountains (Brunnengedichte).  Here's a very famous one from the 19th century:
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Der römische Brunnen

Von Conrad Ferdinand Meyer

Aufsteigt der Strahl und fallend gießt

Er voll der Marmorschale Rund,

Die, sich verschleiernd, überfließt

In einer zweiten Schaale Grund;

Die zweite giebt, sie wird zu reich,

Der dritten wallend ihre Flut,

Und jede nimmt und giebt zugleich

     Und strömt und ruht.

Ein weiteres Dinggedicht

Friday afternoon.  Leaving now  :)  One more famous poem where Rilke starts with describing an object and ends up exploring its Symbolik:
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Römische Fontäne

Villa Borghese

Von Rainer Maria Rilke

Zwei Becken, eins das andere übersteigend

aus einem alten runden Marmorrand,

und aus dem oberen Wasser leis sich neigend

zum Wasser, welches unten wartend stand,

dem leise redenden entgegenschweigend

und heimlich, gleichsam in der hohlen Hand,

ihm Himmel hinter Grün und Dunkel zeigend

wie einen unbekannten Gegenstand;

sich selber ruhig in der schönen Schale

verbreitend ohne Heimweh, Kreis aus Kreis,

nur manchmal träumerisch und tropfenweis

sich niederlassend an den Moosbehängen

zum letzten Spiegel, der sein Becken leis

von unten lächeln macht mit Übergängen.