Read "On the Death of Swinburne" by Sara Teasdale online for free on Textopian. Full text with search, annotations, highlights, and AI-powered reading aids.
He trod the earth but yesterday, / And now he treads the stars. / He left us in the April time / He praised so often in his rhyme, / He left the singing and the lyre and went his way.
He drew new music from our tongue, / A music subtly wrought, / And moulded words to his desire, / As wind doth mould a wave of fire; / From strangely fashioned harps slow golden tones he wrung.
I think the singing understands / That he who sang is still, / And Iseult cries that he is dead, -- / Does not Dolores bow her head / And Fragoletta weep and wring her little hands?
New singing now the singer hears / To lyre and lute and harp; / Catullus waits to welcome him, / And thro' the twilight sweet and dim, / Sappho's forgotten songs are falling on his ears.