Gillian Conoley reads Part VII of “Dejection: An Ode” by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
In this installment, Gillian Conoley reads Part VII of “Dejection: An Ode” by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Conoley is the author of numerous books of poetry, including Profane Halo, Lovers in the Used World, Beckon, Tall Stranger, and Some Gangster Pain. The winner of several Pushcart Prizes, her works have been included in Best American Poetry. She is poet-in-residence and professor of English at Sonoma State University and the editor of Volt.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Part VII of “Dejection: An Ode”
Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,
Reality’s dark dream!
I turn from you, and listen to the wind,
Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream
Of agony by torture lengthened out
That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that rav’st without,
Bare crag, or mountain-tairn, or blasted tree,
Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,
Or lonely house, long held the witches’ home,
Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,
Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers,
Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers,
Mak’st Devils’ yule, with worse than wintry song,
The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among.
Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds!
Thou mighty Poet, e’en to frenzy bold!
What tell’st thou now about?
‘Tis of the rushing of an host in rout,
With groans, of trampled men, with smarting wounds–
At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold!
But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence!
And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd,
With groans, and tremulous shudderings–all is over–
It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud!
A tale of less affright,
And tempered with delight,
As Otway’s self had framed the tender lay,–
‘Tis of a little child
Upon a lonesome wild,
Nor far from home, but she hath lost her way:
And now moans low in bitter grief and fear,
And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear.