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 Views
Quick analysis:
Scheme | ABACBDBDEFEFGH |
---|---|
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 616 |
Words | 116 |
Stanzas | 1 |
Stanza Lengths | 14 |
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"To A Dead Journalist" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 12 Jun 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/38955/to-a-dead-journalist>.
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