Lament VII
Jan Kochanowski 1530 (Sycyna Północna) – 1584 (Lublin)
Sad trinkets of my little daughter, dresses
That touched her like caresses,
Why do you draw my mournful eyes? To borrow
A newer weight of sorrow?
No longer will you clothe her form, to fold her
Around, and wrap her, hold her.
A hard, unwaking sleep has overpowered
Her limbs, and now the flowered
Cool muslin and the ribbon snoods are bootless,
The gilded girdles fruitless.
My little girl, 'twas to a bed far other
That one day thy poor mother
Had thought to lead thee, and this simple dower
Suits not the bridal hour;
A tiny shroud and gown of her own sewing
She gives thee at thy going.
Thy rather brings a clod of earth, a somber
Pillow for thy last slumber.
And so a single casket, scant of measure,
Locks thee and all thy treasure.
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Submitted on August 03, 2020
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 41 sec read
- 15 Views
Quick analysis:
Scheme | ABCCDDEEAFDDGDHHDDDD |
---|---|
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 718 |
Words | 138 |
Stanzas | 1 |
Stanza Lengths | 20 |
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"Lament VII" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 26 Apr. 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/55755/lament-vii>.
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