Love-laurel Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis

Rhyme Scheme: ABCCDACEFGGFEG HFIIFHI JIKKIJK LIMMILM EINNIEN HIAAICA EFOPFEO QIRRIQRSDCCDSC TIUUIUU DVCCVDCCFWWFCW

Ah that God once would touch my lips with songA
To pierce as prayer doth heaven earth s breast of ironB
So that with sweet mouth I might sing to theeC
O sweet dead singer buried by the seaC
A song to woo thee as a wooing sirenD
Out of that silent sleep which seals too longA
Thy mouth of melodyC
For if live lips might speak awhile to deadE
Or any speech could reach the sad world underF
This world of ours song surely should awakeG
Thee who didst dwell in shadow for song s sakeG
Alas thou canst not hear the voice of thunderF
Nor low dirge over thy low lying headE
The winds of morning makeG
-
Down through the clay there comes no sound of theseH
Down in the grave there is no sign of SummerF
Nor any knowledge of the soft eyed SpringI
But Death sits there with outspread ebon wingI
Closing with dust the mouth of each new comerF
To that mute land where never sound of seasH
Is heard and no birds singI
-
Now thou hast found the end of all thy daysJ
Hast thou found any heart a vigil keepingI
For thee among the dead some heart that heardK
Thy singing when thou wert a brown sweet birdK
Gray ons gone in some old forest sleepingI
Beneath the seas long since in Death s dim waysJ
Has thy heart any wordK
-
For surely those in whom the deathless sparkL
Of song is kindled sang from the beginningI
If life were always But the old desiresM
Do they exist when sad eyed Hope expiresM
How live the dead what crowns have they for winningI
Have they to warm them in the dreamless darkL
For sun earth s central firesM
-
Are the dead dead indeed whom we call deadE
Has God no life but this of ours for givingI
When that they took thee by each well known placeN
Stark in thy coffin with a cold white faceN
What thought O Brother hadst thou of the livingI
What of the sun that round thee glory shedE
What of the fair day s graceN
-
Is thy new life made up of memoriesH
Or dreams that lull the dead bright visions bringingI
Of Spring above Are thy days short or longA
Thou who wert master of our singing throngA
Mayhap in death thou hast not lost thy singingI
But chauntst unheard beside the moaning seaC
A solitary songA
-
The chance spade turns up skulls God help the deadE
And thee whose singing days have all passed overF
Thee whom the gold haired Spring shall seek in vainO
When at the glad year s doors she stands againP
Remembering the song garlands thou hast wove herF
In years gone by but all these years have fledE
With all their joy and painO
-
My soul laughed out to hear my heart speak soQ
And sprang forth skyward as an eagle hopingI
To look upon thy soul with living eyesR
Until it came to where our dim life diesR
And dead suns darkly for a grave are gropingI
Through cycles of immeasurable woeQ
Stone blind in the blind skiesR
The stars walk shuddering on that awful vergeS
From which my soul with swift and fearless motionD
Clove the black depths and sought for God and theeC
But God dwells where nor stars nor suns there beC
No shore there is to His Eternal OceanD
A thousand systems are a fringe of surgeS
On that great starless seaC
-
And thou wert not So that with weary plumesT
My soul through the great void its way came wingingI
To earth again What hope for him who singsU
Is there it sighed Death ends all sweetest thingsU
When lo there came a swell of mighty singingI
Flooding all space and swift athwart the gloomsU
A flash of sudden wingsU
-
-
Dreamer of dreams thy songs and dreams are doneD
Down where thou sleepest in earth s secret bosomV
There is no sorrow and no joy for theeC
Who canst not see what stars at eve there beC
Nor evermore at morn the green dawn blossomV
Into the golden king flower of the sunD
Across the golden seaC
But haply there shall come in days to beC
One who shall hear his own heart beating fasterF
Plucking a rose sprung from thy heart beneathW
And from his soul as sword from out its sheathW
Song shall leap forth where now O silent masterF
On thy lone grave beside the sounding seaC
I lay this laurel wreathW

Victor James Daley



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