Poetic Sketches. Sketch the First
Letitia Elizabeth Landon 1802 (Chelsea) – 1838 (Cape Coast)
"A woman’s whole life is
a history of the affections. The heart is her
world. She sends forth her sympathies in
adventure; she embarks her whole soul in the
traffic of love, and, if shipwrecked, her case
is hopeless; it is bankruptcy of the heart."
Washington Irving
"Who shall bring healing to thy heart’s despair,
Thy whole rich sum of happiness lies there."
Croly
There are dark yew-trees gathered round, beneath
Are the white tombstones, and the green grass sods;
No other sounds are heard, save the low voice
Of a brook wandering by, or the wild song
Of the sweet red-breast plaining o'er the graves.
There is one tomb, distinguished from the rest
By wild flowers braided round in curious wreathes
Of April beauty; the blue violet
Bending with dewdrops, like to maiden tears,
Falling for love betrayed; the primrose wan,
As sick with hope deceived; the wild briar-rose
And honeysuckles fancifully linked,
While watching them with fond and patient care,
A pale and wasted Girl leans by that grave.
She once was beautiful, but the hot sun
Has left too rude a kiss upon her cheek,
And she has lain on the damp grass, the sky
Her only canopy; while the dew hung
Amid her hair, and the hoarse night wind sung
Her lullaby; and the unwholesome moss
Has been her pillow; this has paled her brow,
And that worst sickness, sorrow—She has lain
Beside that grave, while some unholy star
Shed over her evil influence.
I marked her place the flowers round, then smile;
Oh, such a sweet sad smile!—she sang at times;
Her song had notes most musical, but strange,
That thrilled the heart and wet the eye with tears.
These are thy bridal flowers
I am now wreathing;
This is thy marriage hymn
I am now breathing.
Some one has been changing
The fresh buds I gathered;
This is not my wreath,
Look how 'tis withered!
And then she threw the flowers aside, and turned
An earnest gaze on heaven; then sang again.
I love thee, oh! thou bright star,
Now looking in light from afar.
Am I not thy own love? I see
Thy answer shine down upon me.
I love thee, thou glorious king,
Look on the fair offering I bring.
There the summer rose blooms in its pride;
Is it not a fit crown for thy bride?
Oh! when will that time of joy be
When my spirit shall mingle with Thee!
Some day I shall seek thy bright shrine,
And be to eternity thine.—
They told me of her history; her love
Was a neglected flame which had consumed
The vase wherein it kindled; Oh, how fraught
With bitterness is unrequited love!
To know that we have cast life's hope away
On a vain shadow. Her's was gentle passion,
Quiet and deep, as woman's love should be,
All tenderness and silence, only known
By the soft meaning of a downcast eye,
Which almost fears to look its timid thoughts:
A sigh scarce heard, a blush scarce visible,
Alone may give it utterance. Love is
A beautiful feeling in a woman's heart,
When felt as only woman love can feel;
Pure as the snowfall, when its latest shower
Sinks on spring flowers; deep as a cave-locked fountain,
And changeless as the cypress's green leaves,
For, like them sad, she nourished
Fond hopes and sweet anxieties, and fed
A passion unconfessed, till He she loved
Was wedded with another; then she grew
Moody and melancholy. One alone
Had power to soothe her in her wanderings,
Her gentle sister, but that sister died,
And the unhappy girl was left alone—
A Maniac. She would wander far, and shunn'd
Her own accustomed dwelling; and her haunt
Was that dead sister's grave, and that to her
Was as a home.
Font size:
Submitted by Madeleine Quinn on March 03, 2020
Modified on April 03, 2023
- 3:14 min read
- 40 Views
Quick analysis:
Scheme | ABXXXCD EEF GAXXXXAXHXXXEXIXJKKXXXLXFXXHXDXDDMGMXX LLNNDDOONNPP QXXQXINRJXFACFBIXXXXXRXORXXBX |
---|---|
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 3,538 |
Words | 641 |
Stanzas | 5 |
Stanza Lengths | 7, 3, 38, 12, 29 |
Translation
Find a translation for this poem in other languages:
Select another language:
- - Select -
- 简体中文 (Chinese - Simplified)
- 繁體中文 (Chinese - Traditional)
- Español (Spanish)
- Esperanto (Esperanto)
- 日本語 (Japanese)
- Português (Portuguese)
- Deutsch (German)
- العربية (Arabic)
- Français (French)
- Русский (Russian)
- ಕನ್ನಡ (Kannada)
- 한국어 (Korean)
- עברית (Hebrew)
- Gaeilge (Irish)
- Українська (Ukrainian)
- اردو (Urdu)
- Magyar (Hungarian)
- मानक हिन्दी (Hindi)
- Indonesia (Indonesian)
- Italiano (Italian)
- தமிழ் (Tamil)
- Türkçe (Turkish)
- తెలుగు (Telugu)
- ภาษาไทย (Thai)
- Tiếng Việt (Vietnamese)
- Čeština (Czech)
- Polski (Polish)
- Bahasa Indonesia (Indonesian)
- Românește (Romanian)
- Nederlands (Dutch)
- Ελληνικά (Greek)
- Latinum (Latin)
- Svenska (Swedish)
- Dansk (Danish)
- Suomi (Finnish)
- فارسی (Persian)
- ייִדיש (Yiddish)
- հայերեն (Armenian)
- Norsk (Norwegian)
- English (English)
Citation
Use the citation below to add this poem to your bibliography:
Style:MLAChicagoAPA
"Poetic Sketches. Sketch the First" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 8 Jun 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/52706/poetic-sketches.-sketch-the-first>.
Discuss the poem Poetic Sketches. Sketch the First with the community...
Report Comment
We're doing our best to make sure our content is useful, accurate and safe.
If by any chance you spot an inappropriate comment while navigating through our website please use this form to let us know, and we'll take care of it shortly.
Attachment
You need to be logged in to favorite.
Log In