Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, RHYME, THE CONSOLER, by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907)


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

RHYME, THE CONSOLER, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: The injuries of time
Last Line: Rhyme brings with honeyed tones an anodyne to pain.
Subject(s): Consolation; Old Age; Poetry & Poets; Time


THE injuries of Time,
The treacherous years,
Fate's pitiless march sublime,
Life's hopes and fears,
Defeats, calamities;
Their lives scant power in Man, to master such as these.

There is no comfort left
In rite or spell,
For lives of love bereft,
Or loved too well,
Long, self-inflicted grief,
Alas! Time brings for such nor solace nor relief.

The princely gains of Thought,
Knowledge the Queen,
No remedy have brought
For what has been,
Nor healing balm impart;
The philosophic brain soothes not the stricken heart.

But who with steadfast mind
And musing eye,
To either fate resigned,
Questions not why,
For him, not all in vain
Rhyme brings with honeyed tones an anodyne to pain.





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