An Echo
Jonathan Swift 1667 (Dublin) – 1745 (Ireland)
Never sleeping, still awake,
Pleasing most when most I speak;
The delight of old and young,
Though I speak without a tongue.
Nought but one thing can confound me,
Many voices joining round me;
Then I fret, and rave, and gabble,
Like the labourers of Babel.
Now I am a dog, or cow,
I can bark, or I can low;
I can bleat, or I can sing,
Like the warblers of the spring.
Let the lovesick bard complain,
And I mourn the cruel pain;
Let the happy swain rejoice,
And I join my helping voice:
Both are welcome, grief or joy,
I with either sport and toy.
Though a lady, I am stout,
Drums and trumpets bring me out:
Then I clash, and roar, and rattle,
Join in all the din of battle.
Jove, with all his loudest thunder,
When I'm vext, can't keep me under;
Yet so tender is my ear,
That the lowest voice I fear;
Much I dread the courtier's fate,
When his merit's out of date,
For I hate a silent breath,
And a whisper is my death.
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 56 sec read
- 134 Views
Quick analysis:
Scheme | ABCCDDEEFEGGHHIIJJKKEELLMNOOPP |
---|---|
Closest metre | Iambic tetrameter |
Characters | 898 |
Words | 184 |
Stanzas | 1 |
Stanza Lengths | 30 |
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"An Echo" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 30 May 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/24255/an-echo>.
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