Meditation Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis

Rhyme Scheme: ABABCDCDCECEFGFG HGHGAAAAAIAJAGAGKGKG AEAELMLM

With sadness I survey our present generationA
Their future seems so empty dark and coldB
Weighed down beneath a load of knowing hesitationA
In idleness stagnating growing oldB
We have received when barely finished weaningC
The errors of our sires their tardiness of mindD
And life oppresses us a flat road without meaningC
An alien feast where we have dinedD
T'ward good and evil shamefully uncaringC
We wilt without a fight when starting on life's raceE
When danger threatens us ignoble want of daringC
Before those set on high despicable and baseE
A wizened fruit grown ripe before its hourF
No pleasure to the eye and no delight to tasteG
An orphan stranger there he hangs beside the flowerF
The time of its full bloom is his to fall and wasteG
-
For we have dried our brains with fruitless speculationsH
Withholding enviously from friends and those ahoutG
The ringing voice of lofty aspirationsH
And noble passions undermined by doubtG
Our lips have barely brushed the cup of delectationA
But youthful strength we did not thus retainA
From every joy we found in fear of saturationA
We took the best and never came againA
The dreams of poesy pure art and its creationA
With its sweet ecstasy our senses never moveI
We greedily retain the remnants of sensationA
Dug deep and miserly a useless treasure troveJ
And we both love and hate by chance without convictionA
We make no sacrifice for malice or for goodG
There reigns within our souls a kind of chill constrictionA
Whene'er the flame ignites the bloodG
The pastimes of our sires we think a boring storyK
Their guileless boyish dissipations unrefinedG
We hurry to our graves unhappy without gloryK
With one last sneering glance behindG
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A gloomy throng are we condemned and soon forgottenA
We pass across the world in silence without traceE
No thoughts that might bear fruit for ages unbegottenA
No work of genius to inspire the raceE
Our ashes will receive a harsh and just portrayalL
Posterity will sneer with skilled and scornful verseM
A curse of bitterness from sons at their betrayalL
By their own father's spendthrift purseM

Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov



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