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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

SONG: SCENE IN A MADHOUSE by AUBREY THOMAS DE VERE

First Line: SHE SINGS HER WILD DIRGES, AND SMILES 'MID THE STRAIN
Last Line: YOUR MEEKNESS WHO TAUGHT YOU? -- 'THE WILLOW.'
Subject(s): INSANITY; MADNESS; MENTAL ILLNESS;
SHE sings her wild dirges, and smiles 'mid the strain;
Then turns to remember her sorrow.
Men gaze on that smile till their tears fall like rain,
And she from their weeping doth borrow.
She forgets her own story: and none, she complains,
Of the cause for her grief will remind her:
She fancies but one of her kindred remains --
She is certain he never can find her.
Whence caught you, sweet mourner, the swell of that song?
'From the arch of you wind-laden billow.'
Whence learned you, sweet lady, your sadness? -- 'From Wrong.'
Your meekness who taught you? -- 'The Willow.'

She boasts that her tresses have never grown grey;
yet murmurs -- 'How long I am dying!
My sorrows but make me more lovely, men say;
But I soon in my grave shall be lying!
My grave will embrace me all round and all round,
More warmly than thou, my false lover: --
No rival will steal to my couch without sound;
No sister will come to discover!'
Whence caught you, sweet mourner, the swell of that song?
'From the arch of the wind-laden billow.'
Whence learned you, sweet lady, your sadness? -- 'From Wrong.'
Your meekness who taught you? -- 'The Willow.'
She courts the cold wind when the tempests blow hard,
And at first she exults in their raving.
She clasps with her fingers the lattice close-barred --
Like the billows her bosom is waving: --
But ere long with strange pity her spirit is crossed,
And she sighs for poor mariners drowning:
And -- 'thus in my passion of old I was tossed' --
And -- 'thus stood my grey father frowning!'
Whence caught you, sweet mourner, the swell of that song?
'From the arch of the wind-laden billow.'
Whence learned you, sweet lady, your sadness? -- 'From Wrong.'
Your meekness who taught you? -- 'The Willow.'

On the wall the rough water chafes ever its breast;
'Mid the willows my bark was awaiting;
Passing by, on her cold hand a sad kiss I prest,
And slowly moved on to the grating.
'For my lips, not my fingers, your bounty I crave!'
She cried with a laugh and light shiver:
'You drift o'er the ocean, and I to the grave;
Henceforward we meet not for ever!'
Where found you, sweet mourner, the swell of that song?
'In the arch of you wind-laden billow.'
Whence caught you, sweet lady, your sadness? -- 'From Wrong.'
Your meekness who taught you? -- 'The Willow.'



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