The Dead Man Walking
Thomas Hardy 1840 (Stinsford) – 1928 (Dorchester, Dorset)
They hail me as one living,
But don't they know
That I have died of late years,
Untombed although?
I am but a shape that stands here,
A pulseless mould,
A pale past picture, screening
Ashes gone cold.
Not at a minute's warning,
Not in a loud hour,
For me ceased Time's enchantments
In hall and bower.
There was no tragic transit,
No catch of breath,
When silent seasons inched me
On to this death ...
-- A Troubadour-youth I rambled
With Life for lyre,
The beats of being raging
In me like fire.
But when I practised eyeing
The goal of men,
It iced me, and I perished
A little then.
When passed my friend, my kinsfolk,
Through the Last Door,
And left me standing bleakly,
I died yet more;
And when my Love's heart kindled
In hate of me,
Wherefore I knew not, died I
One more degree.
And if when I died fully
I cannot say,
And changed into the corpse-thing
I am to-day,
Yet is it that, though whiling
The time somehow
In walking, talking, smiling,
I live not now.
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 29, 2023
- 56 sec read
- 159 Views
Quick analysis:
Scheme | ABCB XDAD AECE XFGF HXAE AIXI AJXJ HGXG GKAK ALAL |
---|---|
Closest metre | Iambic trimeter |
Characters | 931 |
Words | 185 |
Stanzas | 10 |
Stanza Lengths | 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4 |
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"The Dead Man Walking" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 13 May 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/36502/the-dead-man-walking>.
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