A Curate's Complaint.
Edward Woodley Bowling 1837 (Nice,) – 1907 (Ealing, London, )
Where are they all departed,
The loved ones of my youth,
Those emblems white of purity,
Sweet innocence and truth?
When day-light drives the darkness,
When evening melts to night,
When noon-day suns burn brightest,
They come not to my sight.
I miss their pure embraces
Around my neck and throat,
The thousand winning graces
Whereon I used to dote.
I know I may find markets
Where love is bought and sold,
But no such love can equal
The tender ties of old.
My gentle washer-woman,
I know that you are true;
The least shade of suspicion
Can never fall on you.
Then fear me not, as fiercely
I fix on thee stern eyes,
And ask in terms emphatic,
"Where are my lost white ties?"
Each year I buy a dozen,
Yet scarce a year is gone,
Ere, looking in my ward-robe,
I find that I have none.
I don't believe in magic,
I know that you are true,
Yet say, my washer-woman,
What can those white ties do?
Does each with her own collar
To regions far elope,
Regions by starch untainted,
And innocent of soap?
I know not; but in future
I'll buy no more white ties,
But wear the stiff 'all-rounder'
Of Ritualistic guise.
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Submitted on August 03, 2020
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 1:04 min read
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Quick analysis:
Scheme | xabaxcxc dedexfxf gHghbiji gxxgjHgh klxlkiki |
---|---|
Closest metre | Iambic trimeter |
Characters | 1,078 |
Words | 213 |
Stanzas | 5 |
Stanza Lengths | 8, 8, 8, 8, 8 |
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"A Curate's Complaint." Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 19 Apr. 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/55068/a-curate's-complaint.>.
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