Saturday, October 28, 2006

Last Flower

1 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.

Thomas Chatterton. 1752–1770

479. Song from Ælla

O SING unto my roundelay,
O drop the briny tear with me;
Dance no more at holyday,
Like a running river be:
My love is dead, 5
Gone to her death-bed
All under the willow-tree.

Black his cryne as the winter night,
White his rode as the summer snow,
Red his face as the morning light, 10
Cold he lies in the grave below:
My love is dead,
Gone to her death-bed
All under the willow-tree.

Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note, 15
Quick in dance as thought can be,
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;
O he lies by the willow-tree!
My love is dead,
Gone to her death-bed 20
All under the willow-tree.

Hark! the raven flaps his wing
In the brier'd dell below;
Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing
To the nightmares, as they go: 25
My love is dead,
Gone to her death-bed
All under the willow-tree.

See! the white moon shines on high;
Whiter is my true-love's shroud: 30
Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud:
My love is dead,
Gone to her death-bed
All under the willow-tree. 35

Here upon my true-love's grave
Shall the barren flowers be laid;
Not one holy saint to save
All the coldness of a maid:
My love is dead, 40
Gone to her death-bed
All under the willow-tree.

With my hands I'll dent the briers
Round his holy corse to gre:
Ouph and fairy, light your fires, 45
Here my body still shall be:
My love is dead,
Gone to her death-bed
All under the willow-tree.

Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, 50
Drain my heartès blood away;
Life and all its good I scorn,
Dance by night, or feast by day:
My love is dead,
Gone to her death-bed 55
All under the willow-tree.

Mon Nov 20, 03:38:00 PM EST  

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