Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A VALENTINE, by THOMAS HOOD


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A VALENTINE, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Oh! Cruel heart! Ere these posthumous papers
Last Line: That one last word -- that fare -- fare -- fare thee well.
Subject(s): Holidays; Love - Loss Of; Valentine's Day


I.

OH! cruel heart! ere these posthumous papers
Have met thine eyes, I shall be out of breath;
Those cruel eyes, like two funereal tapers
Have only lighted me the way to death.
Perchance, thou wilt extinguish them in vapours,
When I am gone, and green grass covereth
Thy lover, lost; but it will be in vain --
It will not bring the vital spark again.

II.

Ah! when those eyes, like tapers, burn'd so blue,
It seem'd an omen that we must expect
The sprites of lovers; and it boded true,
For I am half a sprite -- a ghost elect;
Wherefore I write to thee this last adieu,
With my last pen -- before that I effect
My exit from the stage; just stopp'd before
The tombstone steps that lead us to death's door.

III.

Full soon those living eyes, now liquid bright,
Will turn dead dull, and wear no radiance, save
They shed a dreary and inhuman light,
Illum'd within by glow-worms of the grave;
These ruddy cheeks, so pleasant to the sight,
These lusty legs, and all the limbs I have,
Will keep Death's carnival, and, foul or fresh,
Must bid farewell, a long farewell, to flesh!

IV.

Yea, and this very heart, that dies for thee,
As broken victuals to the worms will go;
And all the world will dine again but me --
For I shall have no stomach; -- and I know,
When I am ghostly, thou wilt sprightly be
As now thou art: but will not tears of woe
Water thy spirits, with remorse adjunct,
When thou dost pause, and think of the defunct?

V.

And when thy soul is buried in a sleep,
In midnight solitude, and little dreaming
Of such a spectre -- what, if I should creep
Within thy presence in such dismal seeming?
Thine eyes will stare themselves awake, and weep,
And thou wilt cross thyself with treble screaming,
And pray with mingled penitence and dread
That I were less alive -- or not so dead.

VI.

Then will thy heart confess thee, and reprove
This wilful homicide which thou hast done:
And the sad epitaph of so much love
Will eat into my heart, as if in stone:
And all the lovers that around thee move,
Will read my fate, and tremble for their own;
And strike upon their heartless breasts, and sigh,
"Man born of woman, must of woman die!"

VII.

Mine eyes grow dropsical -- I can no more --
And what is written thou may'st scorn to read,
Shutting thy tearless eyes. -- 'Tis done -- tis o'er --
My hand is destin'd for another deed.
But one last word wrung from its aching core,
And my lone heart in silentness will bleed;
Alas! it ought to take a life to tell
That one last word -- that fare -- fare -- fare thee well.





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