Sympathy Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis

Rhyme Scheme: ABABCDED FGFG HIHI JKJK LMNM OPOP KQKQ RSRT UVUV HWHW XHXH NXNX

Lately alas I knew a gentle boyA
Whose features all were cast in Virtue's mouldB
As one she had designed for Beauty's toyA
But after manned him for her own strong holdB
On every side he open was as dayC
That you might see no lack of strength withinD
For walls and ports do only serve alwayE
For a pretence to feebleness and sinD
-
Say not that C sar was victoriousF
With toil and strife who stormed the House of FameG
In other sense this youth was gloriousF
Himself a kingdom wheresoe'er he cameG
-
No strength went out to get him victoryH
When all was income of its own accordI
For where he went none other was to seeH
But all were parcel of their noble lordI
-
He forayed like the subtle breeze of summerJ
That stilly shows fresh landscapes to the eyesK
And revolutions worked without a murmurJ
Or rustling of a leaf beneath the skiesK
-
So was I taken unawares by thisL
I quite forgot my homage to confessM
Yet now am forced to know though hard it isN
I might have loved him had I loved him lessM
-
Each moment as we nearer drew to eachO
A stern respect withheld us farther yetP
So that we seemed beyond each other's reachO
And less acquainted than when first we metP
-
We two were one while we did sympathizeK
So could we not the simplest bargain driveQ
And what avails it now that we are wiseK
If absence doth this doubleness contriveQ
-
Eternity may not the chance repeatR
But I must tread my single way aloneS
In sad remembrance that we once did meetR
And know that bliss irrevocably goneT
-
The spheres henceforth my elegy shall singU
For elegy has other subject noneV
Each strain of music in my ears shall ringU
Knell of departure from that other oneV
-
Make haste and celebrate my tragedyH
With fitting strain resound ye woods and fieldsW
Sorrow is dearer in such case to meH
Than all the joys other occasion yieldsW
-
Is't then too late the damage to repairX
Distance forsooth from my weak grasp hath reftH
The empty husk and clutched the useless tareX
But in my hands the wheat and kernel leftH
-
If I but love that virtue which he isN
Though it be scented in the morning airX
Still shall we be truest acquaintancesN
Nor mortals know a sympathy more rareX

Henry David Thoreau



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