Cypress, geraniums, bleak hedge of my parterre, from the chase I come once more, with grief that sharper gnaws. 'Tis still in my black park the entrance sinister, when evening o'er the world its golden mantle draws, still the entry of a brother that has his brother slain. And 'tis my dame, the Queen, who is the cause of all. To the high tower we mount and gaze upon the main, to dreadful torpor stilled, a sea of pitch and gall. From his barque Prince Hamlet leaps. Home from the jousts he fares. Is he mad? How red he is! He's sweating, this dear child! Alas! Go sound his heart, sweet Gertrude, mother mild, while We to hide Ourselves descend six hundred stairs. At each loophole's chink the sun a lowlier beam doth show. 'Tis the hour when in the vaults one sees the rising moon in the eyes of monstrous rats. But, tender mother, go to dry Our noble son lest he contract a rheum. This evening he shall see this tranquil face of mine (he loves such games) along the lighted passage wend, that in his room is lost -- the pathway to the end. Madame, you need not fear. I shall have drunk the wine. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FIRE, FAMINE AND SLAUGHTER. A WAR ECLOGUE by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE THE DESPAIRING LOVER by WILLIAM WALSH (1663-1707) UNDERSTANDING by NIXON WATERMAN THE STORK by GHALIB IBN RIBAH AL-HAJJAM WHY PLAGUE ME, LOVES? by ASCLEPIADES OF SAMOS BLUEBEARD by RUTH FITCH BARLETT |