D. E. A. WALLACE(SOMERVILLE)SONNET IN CONTEMPT OF DEATHWhenI consider some day wanton DeathWith sudden hand ungently laid aboveThe heart of her, my softly-sleeping love,Shall fright away her sweet and rhythmic breath;Shall quell the colour in her flower-face,Inevitable and unheraldedAs frosts in May that strike the blossom dead—Shall quench her eyes, transfix her dreaming grace;When I consider that her limbs shall beSet stiffly in a strong rigidity;That by-and-by her flesh shall fall away,Unsightly in a horrible decay,Then do I laugh, despite my catching breath—A piteous fool, a sad, blind fool is Death!
D. E. A. WALLACE(SOMERVILLE)
D. E. A. WALLACE(SOMERVILLE)
WhenI consider some day wanton DeathWith sudden hand ungently laid aboveThe heart of her, my softly-sleeping love,Shall fright away her sweet and rhythmic breath;Shall quell the colour in her flower-face,Inevitable and unheraldedAs frosts in May that strike the blossom dead—Shall quench her eyes, transfix her dreaming grace;When I consider that her limbs shall beSet stiffly in a strong rigidity;That by-and-by her flesh shall fall away,Unsightly in a horrible decay,Then do I laugh, despite my catching breath—A piteous fool, a sad, blind fool is Death!
WhenI consider some day wanton DeathWith sudden hand ungently laid aboveThe heart of her, my softly-sleeping love,Shall fright away her sweet and rhythmic breath;Shall quell the colour in her flower-face,Inevitable and unheraldedAs frosts in May that strike the blossom dead—Shall quench her eyes, transfix her dreaming grace;When I consider that her limbs shall beSet stiffly in a strong rigidity;That by-and-by her flesh shall fall away,Unsightly in a horrible decay,Then do I laugh, despite my catching breath—A piteous fool, a sad, blind fool is Death!
WhenI consider some day wanton DeathWith sudden hand ungently laid aboveThe heart of her, my softly-sleeping love,Shall fright away her sweet and rhythmic breath;Shall quell the colour in her flower-face,Inevitable and unheraldedAs frosts in May that strike the blossom dead—Shall quench her eyes, transfix her dreaming grace;When I consider that her limbs shall beSet stiffly in a strong rigidity;That by-and-by her flesh shall fall away,Unsightly in a horrible decay,Then do I laugh, despite my catching breath—A piteous fool, a sad, blind fool is Death!
WhenI consider some day wanton Death
With sudden hand ungently laid above
The heart of her, my softly-sleeping love,
Shall fright away her sweet and rhythmic breath;
Shall quell the colour in her flower-face,
Inevitable and unheralded
As frosts in May that strike the blossom dead—
Shall quench her eyes, transfix her dreaming grace;
When I consider that her limbs shall be
Set stiffly in a strong rigidity;
That by-and-by her flesh shall fall away,
Unsightly in a horrible decay,
Then do I laugh, despite my catching breath—
A piteous fool, a sad, blind fool is Death!