Dead Musicians
From you, Beethoven, Bach, Mozart,The substance of my dreams took fire.You built cathedrals in my heart,And lit my pinnacled desire.You were the ardour and the brightProcession of my thoughts toward prayer.You were the wrath of storm, the lightOn distant citadels aflare.
Great names, I cannot find you nowIn these loud years of youth that strivesThrough doom toward peace: upon my browI wear a wreath of banished lives.You have no part with lads who foughtAnd laughed and suffered at my side.Your fugues and symphonies have broughtNo memory of my friends who died.
For when my brain is on their track,In slangy speech I call them back.With fox-trot tunes their ghosts I charm."Another little drink won't do us any harm."I think of rag-time; a bit of rag-time;And see their faces crowding roundTo the sound of the syncopated beat.They've got such jolly things to tell,Home from hell with a Blighty wound so neat...And so the song breaks off; and I'm alone.They're dead... For God's sake stop that gramophone.
Words in this poem
- ardour n.
- Heat, in a literal sense; as, the ardor of the sun's rays. [L. ardor, fr. ardere to burn: cf. OF. ardor, ardur, F. ardeur.]
- slangy a.
- Of or pertaining to slang; of the nature of slang; disposed to use slang.
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
Dead Musicians is in the public domain. This text is taken from Counter-Attack and Other Poems, Project Gutenberg ebook #8930; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Siegfried Sassoon, Dead Musicians, in Counter-Attack and Other Poems (1918), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #8930, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/sassoon-counter-attack/dead-musicians.html, id L04722.
Form and metre
Dead Musicians is 27 lines in 3 stanzas. The rhyme scheme is ABABCDCD, complete in 2 of its 3 stanzas. The metre is iambic tetrameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 86%). 91% of its stressed syllables fall where the metre puts the beat. The lines average 8.8 syllables. 4 lines end on an unstressed syllable, a feminine ending. 30% of the lines run on without a stop at the line end.
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 ABABCDCD mozartA · fireB · heartA · desireB · brightC · prayerD · lightC · aflareD
- 2 ABABCDCD nowA · strivesB · browA · livesB · foughtC · sideD · broughtC · diedD
- 3 AABB--C-CDD trackA · backA · charmB · harmB · time · round · beatC · tell · neatC · aloneD · gramophoneD
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 |
|---|---|---|
| From you, Beethoven, Bach, Mozart, | 8 | ··/˘˘·/˘ |
| The substance of my dreams took fire. | 9 | ·/˘····/˘ |
| You built cathedrals in my heart, | 8 | ··˘/˘··· |
| And lit my pinnacled desire. | 10 | ···/˘˘˘˘/˘ |
| You were the ardour and the bright | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| Procession of my thoughts toward prayer. | 9 | ˘/˘······ |
| You were the wrath of storm, the light | 8 | ········ |
| On distant citadels aflare. | 8 | ·/˘/˘··· |
| Great names, I cannot find you now | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| In these loud years of youth that strives | 8 | ········ |
| Through doom toward peace: upon my brow | 9 | ········· |
| I wear a wreath of banished lives. | 9 | ·····/˘˘· |
| You have no part with lads who fought | 8 | ········ |
| And laughed and suffered at my side. | 10 | ··˘·/˘˘··· |
| Your fugues and symphonies have brought | 8 | ···/˘˘·· |
| No memory of my friends who died. | 9 | ·/˘˘····· |
| For when my brain is on their track, | 8 | ········ |
| In slangy speech I call them back. | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| With fox-trot tunes their ghosts I charm. | 8 | ········ |
| "Another little drink won't do us any harm." | 12 | ˘/˘/˘····/˘· |
| I think of rag-time; a bit of rag-time; | 10 | ·········· |
| And see their faces crowding round | 8 | ···/˘/˘· |
| To the sound of the syncopated beat. | 10 | ·····/˘·˘· |
| They've got such jolly things to tell, | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| Home from hell with a Blighty wound so neat... | 10 | ·········· |
| And so the song breaks off; and I'm alone. | 10 | ········˘/ |
| They're dead... For God's sake stop that gramophone. | 10 | ·······/˘˘ |
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.