On The Death Of Swinburne

Sara Teasdale

 Next Poem          

He trod the earth but yesterday,
And now he treads the stars.
He left us in the April time
He praised so often in his rhyme,
He left the singing and the lyre and went his way.

He drew new music from our tongue,
A music subtly wrought,
And moulded words to his desire,
As wind doth mould a wave of fire;
From strangely fashioned harps slow golden tones he wrung.

I think the singing understands
That he who sang is still,
And Iseult cries that he is dead, --
Does not Dolores bow her head
And Fragoletta weep and wring her little hands?

New singing now the singer hears
To lyre and lute and harp;
Catullus waits to welcome him,
And thro' the twilight sweet and dim,
Sappho's forgotten songs are falling on his ears.

Next Poem 

 Back to Sara Teasdale
Get a free collection of Classic Poetry ↓

Receive the ebook in seconds 50 poems from 50 different authors


To be able to leave a comment here you must be registered. Log in or Sign up.