Classic and Contemporary Poetry
RONSARD'S TOMB, by PIERRE DE RONSARD Poet's Biography First Line: O caves, and you, o springs Last Line: Of whoso hears. Subject(s): Death; Fate; Flowers; Graves; Heaven; Mythology - Classical; Pan (mythology); Time; Dead, The; Destiny; Tombs; Tombstones; Paradise | ||||||||
O CAVES, and you, O springs The lofty mountain flings Downward along his sides With leaps and glides, O woods, and sun-shot gleams Of wandering meadow-streams, And banks with flowers gay, List what I say -- When Fate and Heaven decree My hour is come to be Snatched from the light away Of common day, Let none bring granite stones To build above my bones A tomb of noble height In Time's despite -- Not marble, but a tree Set to cast over me Shadows of billowy sheen, Forever green, And from my earth let spring An ivy, garlanding The grave, and round it wind Twisted and twined. There shepherds with their sheep Coming each year to keep My festival, shall pay Their rites, and say: "Fair isle, great is thy grace, To be his resting-place, While all the universe Repeats his verse. "He taught the Muses' pride To love our country-side, And dance our flowers among, To songs he sung. "He struck his lyre on high Fore'er to glorify Our mountains, crofts, and wealds, And blosmy fields. "Let gentle manna fall Alway, above his pall, And dew that soft and still Spring nights distil. "And let us keep his name, And glorying in his fame Each year bring him again Praise, as to Pan." Thus shall the shepherd-troop Speak, and from many a cup Pour wine and milk for food And young lambs' blood Above me, who shall then Be dwelling far from men, Where happy spirits blest Take their long rest, Where Zephyr breathes his love O'er field and myrtle-grove And meadows at all hours New-decked with flowers, Where care comes not, nor hate, Nor envy spurs the great To spread fell sorrow's dower For lust of power; In brotherly good-will All join, and follow still The crafts they used to love On earth above. Ah, God! to think, mine ear Alcaeus' lyre shall hear, And Sappho's, over all Most musical! See how the happy throngs Press near to hear their songs Till souls in woe rejoice Listing their voice, Till Sisyphus forget His rock-worn toil and sweat, Till Tantalus obtain Surcease of pain. . . . The sweet-toned lyre alone Can comfort hearts that moan And charm away all cares Of whoso hears. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE END OF LIFE by PHILIP JAMES BAILEY SEVEN TWILIGHTS: 6 by CONRAD AIKEN THE BOOK OF THE DEAD MAN (#19): 2. MORE ABOUT THE DEAD MAN AND WINTER by MARVIN BELL THE WORLDS IN THIS WORLD by LAURE-ANNE BOSSELAAR A SKELETON FOR MR. PAUL IN PARADISE; AFTER ALLAN GUISINGER by NORMAN DUBIE BEAUTY & RESTRAINT by DANIEL HALPERN HOW IT WILL HAPPEN, WHEN by DORIANNE LAUX IF THIS IS PARADISE by DORIANNE LAUX RETURN OF SPRING by PIERRE DE RONSARD |
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