Ay Me, Ay Me, I Sigh the Scythe A-field



Ay me, ay me, I sigh to see the scythe a-field;
Down goeth the grass, soon wrought to wither'd hay:
Ay me, alas! ay me, alas, that beauty needs must yield,
And princes pass, as grass doth fade away.

Ay me, ay me, that life can not have lasting leave,
Nor gold take hold of everlasting joy:
Ay me, alas! ay me, alas, that time hath talents to receive,
And yet no time can make a suer stay.

Ay me, ay me, that wit can not have wished choice,
Nor wish can win that will desires to see:
Ay me, alas! ay me, alas, that mirth can promise no rejoice,
Nor study tell what afterward shall be.

Ay me, ay me, that no sure staff is given to age,
Nor age can give sure wit that youth will take:
Ay me, alas! ay me, alas, that no counsel wise and sage
Will shun the show that all doth mar and make.

Ay me, ay me, come, Time, shear on and shake thy hay,
It is no boot to balk thy bitter blows:
Ay me, alas! ay me, alas, come, Time, take everything away,
For all is thine, be it good or bad, that grows.

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Submitted on May 13, 2011

Modified on March 05, 2023

1:02 min read
49

Quick analysis:

Scheme ABAB CXCB DEDE FGFG BHBH
Closest metre Iambic hexameter
Characters 976
Words 206
Stanzas 5
Stanza Lengths 4, 4, 4, 4, 4

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    "Ay Me, Ay Me, I Sigh the Scythe A-field" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 28 Mar. 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/3350/ay-me,-ay-me,-i-sigh-the-scythe-a-field>.

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