Bird of the bitter bright grey golden morn
⁠Scarce risen upon the dusk of dolorous years,
First of us all and sweetest singer born
⁠Whose far shrill note the world of new men hears
⁠Cleave the cold shuddering shade as twilight clears;
When song new‑born put off the old world's attire
And felt its tune on her changed lips expire,
⁠Writ foremost on the roll of them that came
Fresh girt for service of the latter lyre,
⁠Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name!