A Tale Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis
Rhyme Scheme: A BCBCDD EFEFGG BHBIJJ KLKLMM BNBNO KPKPPP PQPQIH IEIEPP EPEPPP RPRPS IKIKPP EPEPB QOQOPP KGKGOO PPPPPP PPPPTU PVPWX IYIYZZEpilogue to 'The Two Poets of Croisic ' | A |
- | |
What a pretty tale you told me | B |
Once upon a time | C |
Said you found it somewhere scold me | B |
Was it prose or was it rhyme | C |
Greek or Latin Greek you said | D |
While your shoulder propped my head | D |
- | |
Anyhow there's no forgetting | E |
This much if no more | F |
That a poet pray no petting | E |
Yes a bard sir famed of yore | F |
Went where suchlike used to go | G |
Singing for a prize you know | G |
- | |
Well he had to sing nor merely | B |
Sing but play the lyre | H |
Playing was important clearly | B |
Quite as singing I desire | I |
Sir you keep the fact in mind | J |
For a purpose that's behind | J |
- | |
There stood he while deep attention | K |
Held the judges round | L |
Judges able I should mention | K |
To detect the slightest sound | L |
Sung or played amiss such ears | M |
Had old judges it appears | M |
- | |
None the less he sang out boldly | B |
Played in time and tune | N |
Till the judges weighing coldly | B |
Each note's worth seemed late or soon | N |
Sure to smile 'In vain one tries | O |
Picking faults out take the prize ' | - |
- | |
When a mischief Were they seven | K |
Strings the lyre possessed | P |
Oh and afterwards eleven | K |
Thank you Well sir who had guessed | P |
Such ill luck in store it happed | P |
One of those same seven strings snapped | P |
- | |
All was lost then No a cricket | P |
What 'cicada' Pooh | Q |
Some mad thing that left its thicket | P |
For mere love of music flew | Q |
With its little heart on fire | I |
Lighted on the crippled lyre | H |
- | |
So that when Ah joy our singer | I |
For his truant string | E |
Feels with disconcerted finger | I |
What does cricket else but fling | E |
Fiery heart forth sound the note | P |
Wanted by the throbbing throat | P |
- | |
Ay and ever to the ending | E |
Cricket chirps at need | P |
Executes the hand's intending | E |
Promptly perfectly indeed | P |
Saves the singer from defeat | P |
With her chirrup low and sweet | P |
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Till at ending all the judges | R |
Cry with one assent | P |
'Take the prize a prize who grudges | R |
Such a voice and instrument | P |
Why we took your lyre for harp | S |
So it shrilled us forth F sharp ' | - |
- | |
Did the conqueror spurn the creature | I |
Once its service done | K |
That's no such uncommon feature | I |
In the case when Music's son | K |
Finds his Lotte's power too spent | P |
For aiding soul development | P |
- | |
No This other on returning | E |
Homeward prize in hand | P |
Satisfied his bosom's yearning | E |
Sir I hope you understand | P |
Said 'Some record there must be | B |
Of this cricket's help to me ' | - |
- | |
So he made himself a statue | Q |
Marble stood life size | O |
On the lyre he pointed at you | Q |
Perched his partner in the prize | O |
Never more apart you found | P |
Her he throned from him she crowned | P |
- | |
That's the tale its application | K |
Somebody I know | G |
Hopes one day for reputation | K |
Thro' his poetry that's Oh | G |
All so learned and so wise | O |
And deserving of a prize | O |
- | |
If he gains one will some ticket | P |
When his statue's built | P |
Tell the gazer ''Twas a cricket | P |
Helped my crippled lyre whose lilt | P |
Sweet and low when strength usurped | P |
Softness' place i' the scale she chirped | P |
- | |
'For as victory was nighest | P |
While I sang and played | P |
With my lyre at lowest highest | P |
Right alike one string that made | P |
'Love' sound soft was snapt in twain | T |
Never to be heard again | U |
- | |
'Had not a kind cricket fluttered | P |
Perched upon the place | V |
Vacant left and duly uttered | P |
'Love Love Love ' whene'er the bass | W |
Asked the treble to atone | X |
For its somewhat sombre drone ' | - |
- | |
But you don't know music Wherefore | I |
Keep on casting pearls | Y |
To a poet All I care for | I |
Is to tell him that a girl's | Y |
'Love' comes aptly in when gruff | Z |
Grows his singing There enough | Z |
Robert Browning
(1)
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