The Open Secret Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis

Rhyme Scheme: ABCDEDDEDFFGHIJKLMJM NOONPPQQRRSFTTUUFFFF FVWWVFFFV XYZAA2B2B2FA2F

The Heavens repeat no other SongA
And plainly or in parableB
The Angels trust in each man's to gueC
The Treasure's safety to its sizeD
In shameful HellE
The Lily in last corruption liesD
Where known 'tis rotten lily wiseD
By the strange foulness of the smellE
Earth that in this arcanum spiesD
Proof of high kinship unconceiv'dF
By all desired and disbeliev'dF
Shews fancies in each thing that isG
Which nothing mean not meaning thisH
Yea does from her own law to hint it errI
As 'twere a trust too huge for herJ
Maiden and Youth pipe wondrous clearK
The tune they are the last to hearL
'Tis the strange gem in Pleasure's cupM
Physician and PhilosopherJ
In search of acorns plough it upM
But count it nothing 'mong their gainsN
Nay call it pearl they'd answer LoO
Blest Land where pearls as large as pumpkins growO
And would not even rend you for your painsN
To tell men truth yet keep them darkP
And shooting still beside the markP
God as in jest gave to their wishQ
The Sign of Jonah and the FishQ
'Tis the name new on the white stoneR
To none but them that have it knownR
And even these can scarce believe but cryS
When turn'd was Sion's captivityF
Then were we yea and yet we seemT
Like them that dreamT
In Spirit 'tis a punctual rayU
Of peace that sheds more light than dayU
In Will and MindF
'Tis the easy path so hard to findF
In Heart a pain not to be toldF
Were words mere honey milk and goldF
I' the Body 'tis the bag of the beeF
In all the present thousandfold amendsV
Made to the sad astonish'd lifeW
Of him that leaves house child and wifeW
And on God's 'hest almost despairing wendsV
As little guessing as the herdF
What a strange Ph nix of a birdF
Builds in this treeF
But only intending all that He intendsV
-
To this the Life of them that liveX
If God would not thus far give tongueY
Ah why did He his secret giveZ
To one that has the gift of songA
But all He does He doubtless meansA2
And if the Mystery that smites Prophets dumbB2
Here to the grace couch'd eyes of someB2
Shapes to its living face the clinging shroudF
Perchance the Skies grow tired of screensA2
And 'tis His Advent in the CloudF

Coventry Patmore



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