To A Dead Journalist

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



The busy trade of life is over now,
The intricate toil which was so hard for bread,
The strife each day renewed 'neath this poor brow
By this frail hand to be interpreted,
The zeal, the forethought, the heart's wounds that bled,
The anger roused, the stark blow answering blow,
All that was centred in that aching head
Of black necessity for weal or woe.
--Its use, its purpose what? Nay, less than none,
More blindly naught than even the dull clay
Left on this bed, its corporal union done,
Which we must shovel to its grave to--day.
O soul of Man, thou pilgrim of distress
Lost in Time's void! Thou wind of nothingness!

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Submitted on May 13, 2011

Modified on March 05, 2023

35 sec read
34

Quick analysis:

Scheme ABACBDBDEFEFGH
Closest metre Iambic pentameter
Characters 616
Words 116
Stanzas 1
Stanza Lengths 14

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

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

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