![]() |
![]() |
![]() |
1. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
XVI. |
XVII. |
XVIII. |
XIX. |
XX. |
XXI. |
XXII. |
XXIII. |
XXIV. |
XXV. |
XXVI. |
XXVII. |
XXVIII. |
XXIX. |
XXX. |
XXXI. |
XXXII. |
XXXIII. |
XXXIV. |
XXXV. |
XXXVI. |
XXXVII. |
XXXVIII. |
XXXIX. |
XL. |
XLI. |
XLII. |
XLIII. |
XLIV. |
XLV. |
XLVI. |
XLVII. |
XLVIII. |
XLIX. |
L. |
LI. |
LII. |
LIII. |
LIV. |
LV. |
LVI. |
LVII. |
![]() |
![]() |
![]() |
![]() |
![]() |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
TO A TUNE. |
![]() |
![]() |
![]() |
![]() |
I. |
II. |
![]() |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
![]() |
I. |
II. |
![]() |
![]() |
![]() |
![]() |
![]() |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
![]() |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
![]() |
![]() |
I. |
II. |
![]() |
![]() |
I. |
II. |
III. |
![]() |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
![]() |
I. |
II. |
III. |
![]() |
I. |
II. |
![]() |
I. |
II. |
III. |
![]() |
I. |
II. |
![]() |
![]() |
![]() |
![]() |
![]() |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
![]() |
![]() |
![]() |
![]() |
I. |
II. |
![]() |
![]() | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | ![]() |
TO A TUNE.
O wild, sweet tune, of which my soul is fain,
Through the loud sound of sea and tempest heard,
Like the low moan of a wind-driven bird, —
O sad, sweet tune! O passionate, wild strain!
Full of past joy, dead hope, and present pain, —
Once more I catch thee, and my heart is stirr'd,
Stung sharply by that one great, simple word,
Gone as a dream that shall not come again.
Through the loud sound of sea and tempest heard,
Like the low moan of a wind-driven bird, —
O sad, sweet tune! O passionate, wild strain!
Full of past joy, dead hope, and present pain, —
Once more I catch thee, and my heart is stirr'd,
Stung sharply by that one great, simple word,
Gone as a dream that shall not come again.
Once more I see my lady's warm, flushed face;
See her deep amorous eyes, and swept back hair;
Yea, hear the tender sobbing of her breath.
O tune, made sad with all sweet things that were!
O tune, keep back, or quite restore those days,
That, past, crown life, or break our wills for death!
See her deep amorous eyes, and swept back hair;
Yea, hear the tender sobbing of her breath.
O tune, made sad with all sweet things that were!
O tune, keep back, or quite restore those days,
That, past, crown life, or break our wills for death!
![]() | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | ![]() |