Get Your Premium Membership

The Dead Man Walking

 They hail me as one living,
But don't they know
That I have died of late years,
Untombed although?

I am but a shape that stands here,
A pulseless mould,
A pale past picture, screening
Ashes gone cold.
Not at a minute's warning, Not in a loud hour, For me ceased Time's enchantments In hall and bower.
There was no tragic transit, No catch of breath, When silent seasons inched me On to this death .
.
.
-- A Troubadour-youth I rambled With Life for lyre, The beats of being raging In me like fire.
But when I practised eyeing The goal of men, It iced me, and I perished A little then.
When passed my friend, my kinsfolk, Through the Last Door, And left me standing bleakly, I died yet more; And when my Love's heart kindled In hate of me, Wherefore I knew not, died I One more degree.
And if when I died fully I cannot say, And changed into the corpse-thing I am to-day, Yet is it that, though whiling The time somehow In walking, talking, smiling, I live not now.

Poem by Thomas Hardy
Biography | Poems | Best Poems | Short Poems | Quotes | Email Poem - The Dead Man WalkingEmail Poem | Create an image from this poem

Poems are below...



Summaries, Analysis, and Information on "The Dead Man Walking"

Sorry, no articles found.

More Information

More Poems by Thomas Hardy


Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry