The Proud Poet Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis

Rhyme Scheme: A BCBCADAD EFEGFHIHI JKJKLMLM NONOIAIA PQPQRSRS

For Shaemas O SheelA
-
-
One winter night a Devil came and sat upon my bedB
His eyes were full of laughter for his heart was full of crimeC
Why don't you take up fancy work or embroidery he saidB
For a needle is as manly a tool as a pen that makes a rhymeC
You little ugly Devil said I go back to HellA
For the idea you express I will not listen toD
I have trouble enough with poetry and poverty as wellA
Without having to pay attention to orators like youD
-
When you say of the making of ballads and songs that it is woman's workE
You forget all the fighting poets that have been in every landF
There was Byron who left all his lady loves to fight against the TurkE
And David the Singing King of the JewsG
who was born with a sword in his handF
It was yesterday that Rupert Brooke went out to the Wars and diedH
And Sir Philip Sidney's lyric voice was as sweet as his arm was strongI
And Sir Walter Raleigh met the axe as a lover meets his brideH
Because he carried in his soul the courage of his songI
-
And there is no consolation so quickening to the heartJ
As the warmth and whiteness that come from the lines of noble poetryK
It is strong joy to read it when the wounds of the spirit smartJ
It puts the flame in a lonely breast where only ashes beK
It is strong joy to read it and to make it is a thingL
That exalts a man with a sacreder pride than any pride on earthM
For it makes him kneel to a broken slave and set his foot on a kingL
And it shakes the walls of his little soul with the echo of God's mirthM
-
There was the poet Homer had the sorrow to be blindN
Yet a hundred people with good eyes would listen to him all nightO
For they took great enjoyment in the heaven of his mindN
And were glad when the old blind poet let them share his powers of sightO
And there was Heine lying on his mattress all day longI
He had no wealth he had no friends he had no joy at allA
Except to pour his sorrow into little cups of songI
And the world finds in them the magic wine that his broken heart let fallA
-
And these are only a couple of names from a list of a thousand scoreP
Who have put their glory on the world in poverty and painQ
And the title of poet's a noble thing worth living and dying forP
Though all the devils on earth and in Hell spit at me their disdainQ
It is stern work it is perilous work to thrust your hand in the sunR
And pull out a spark of immortal flame to warm the hearts of menS
But Prometheus torn by the claws and beaks whose task is never doneR
Would be tortured another eternity to go stealing fire againS

Joyce Kilmer



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About The Proud Poet

The Proud Poet is a poem by Joyce Kilmer. This page includes the poem text, poet information, related topics, comments, and similar poems.



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