Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, LAMENT, by HENRY PATMORE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

LAMENT, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: O let me, as I ought to, grieve
Last Line: And thoughts of things I never see.
Subject(s): Lament


Of one who could go out only in a bath-chair, the doctor recommending the
morning; but once being out on a January afternoon, he felt some sadness at
tasting a pleasure which he had almost forgotten.

OLET me, as I ought to, grieve
For loss of thee, dear time of eve;
Let me be thankful as I ought,
For forced remembrance and sad thought.
The quiet passionate evening time
Has been my love and oft my rhyme;
The orient day's divine ascent
I have loved with less of love's content:
More like our life and so more sweet
This time when earth and heaven so meet.

Almost did I -- oh sin -- forget
The dim delight of the sunset;
The round sun lingering misty red,
Ere in the sea he sinks to bed;
The tremor and the blush upon
The sea, expecting the red sun;
The movement of that hour so still;
The sense that goes before the will,
And thoughts that heavy lag behind,
And bring the quiet to the mind;
And what delights the eye not least,
The gloom of the deserted east,
All empty of the glorious sun,
And darkness seen where morning shone.
The hill, that tip-toe did defy
With rugged head the early sky,
Now, in the gentle mist more great,
Leans down on earth with all its weight;
And here the old street slumbers deep,
And red-tiled cottages asleep
Look lazy, lost, and quieted
In drowsy dreams of ages dead.
And still the setting light is kind,
And somehow finds its way behind
To where the cottage children play,
Forgetful of the serious day,
And all with serious love intent
On strife that bursts in merriment.
Oh, listen to the noise that's made
Where those thick bushes make thick shade!
The birds have something they must say
Before the light is gone away.

Before the light is gone away
Let love bring joy that loves delay;
The pensive sister of dear sorrow,
She weeps to-day to laugh to-morrow.
And now no longer do I grieve
For loss of thee, dear time of eve,
Since more than all I lost I find
In this forgiving evening kind,
This dying winter afternoon,
Unlike late-lasting joy of June,
And lovely with a likeness lent
That leaves it less and different.
No little beauty this, though less
Than summer's more than sweet excess;
No loss, this lovely difference,
That suits it to my present sense.

Seldom and dear to me the sight
Of day adorned to meet the night.
'Tis sweeter now and much more dear
Than former summer evenings were,
When often with surprise I met
The sudden joy of the sunset;
And when the coloured light was gone,
Then joy and I were left alone
In silent conversation free,
And thoughts of things I never see.





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