Song
Oh, how hard it is to findThe one just suited to our mind;And if that one should beFalse, unkind, or found too late,What can we do but sigh at fate,And sing, Woe’s me—Woe’s me!
Love’s a boundless burning waste,Where Bliss’s stream we seldom taste,And still more seldom fleeSuspense’s thorns, Suspicion’s stings;Yet somehow Love a something bringsThat’s sweet—e’en when we sigh, “Woe’s me!”
Words in this poem
- unkind a.
- Having no race or kindred; childless. [See Kin kindred.]
- somehow adv.
- In one way or another; in some way not yet known or designated; by some means; as, the thing must be done somehow; he lives somehow.
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
Song is in the public domain. This text is taken from The Poetical Works of Thomas Campbell, Project Gutenberg ebook #59788; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Thomas Campbell, Song, in The Pleasures of Hope, and Other Poems (1824), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #59788, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/campbell-poems/song-3.html, id L24432.
Form and metre
Song is 12 lines in 2 stanzas of 6 lines each. Every stanza rhymes AABCCB. The metre is iambic tetrameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 93%).
See other poems in iambic tetrameter.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Rhyme words, stanza by stanza
The word that ends each line, lettered by the rhyme it makes; a dash is a line whose rhyme the dictionary could not confirm.
- 1 AABCCB findA · mindA · beB · lateC · fateC · meB
- 2 AABCCB wasteA · tasteA · fleeB · stingsC · bringsC · meB
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. Read against iambic tetrameter. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| Oh, how hard it is to find | 7 | ······· |
| The one just suited to our mind; | 8 | ···/˘·/· |
| And if that one should be | 6 | ······ |
| False, unkind, or found too late, | 7 | ·˘/···· |
| What can we do but sigh at fate, | 8 | ········ |
| And sing, Woe’s me—Woe’s me! | 6 | ······ |
| Love’s a boundless burning waste, | 7 | ··/˘/˘· |
| Where Bliss’s stream we seldom taste, | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| And still more seldom flee | 6 | ···/˘· |
| Suspense’s thorns, Suspicion’s stings; | 8 | ˘/˘·˘/˘· |
| Yet somehow Love a something brings | 8 | ·/···/˘· |
| That’s sweet—e’en when we sigh, “Woe’s me!” | 8 | ········ |
The reader shows the same poem with its rhymes coloured and a stress row above each line, the notes beside their stanzas, and any word's definition on a tap; the analysis page takes the whole book apart. How every part of this site was made.