Glad Bird, I Do Bewail Thee

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt 1840 (Petworth House) – 1922 (United Kingdom)



Glad bird, I do bewail thee,
Thy song it was so sweet
That Earth looked up to hail thee
Till wings grew to her feet.
But, ah! thy mate is lying dead
Among the new--mown hay,
And a fowler comes to jail thee
Where thou shalt pine away.

Bright butterfly, I wail thee,
So dainty was thy wing,
So bravely didst regale thee
On every honied thing.
But thou art all too lightly clad
For any month but May,
And Autumn rains shall trail thee
And wash thy paint away.

Sweet childhood, I bewail thee.
Thy smile it shifteth ever
As the ship that thou dost sail thee
Adown the running river.
But ah! life's river runneth fast
And forward lies the sea,
And what shall then avail thee
Thy laughter and thy glee?

And youth, I most bewail thee,
Thy purpose was so great,
But the fools that did assail thee
Were stronger than thy fate,
And thy heart it was so ruddy red
That every archer knew
Where he might best impale thee
And drive his arrows through.

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Submitted on May 13, 2011

Modified on March 05, 2023

54 sec read
53

Quick analysis:

Scheme ABABCDAD AEAEXDAD AFAFXAAA AGAGCHAH
Closest metre Iambic tetrameter
Characters 912
Words 182
Stanzas 4
Stanza Lengths 8, 8, 8, 8

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt was an English poet and writer. more…

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