Analysis of From The Portuguese
Edith Nesbit 1858 (Kennington, Surrey ) – 1924 (New Romney, Kent)
When I lived in the village of youth
There were lilies in all the orchards,
Flowers in the orange-gardens
For brides to wear in their hair.
It was always sunshine and summer,
Roses at every lattice,
Dreams in the eyes of maidens,
Love in the eyes of men.
When I lived in the village of youth
The doors, all the doors, stood open;
We went in and out of them laughing,
Laughing and calling each other
To shew each other our fairings,
The new shawl, the new comb, the new fan,
The new rose, the new lover.
Now I live in the town of age
Where are no orchards, no gardens.
Here, too, all the doors stand open,
But no one goes in or goes out.
We sit alone by the hearthstone
Where memories lie like ashes
Upon a hearth that is cold;
And they from the village of youth
Run by our doorsteps laughing,
Calling, to shew each other
The new shawl, the new comb, the new fan,
The new rose, the new lover.
Once we had all these things -
We kept them from the old people,
And now the young people have them
And will not shew them to us -
To us who are old and have nothing
But the white, still, heaped-up ashes
On the hearth where the fire went out
A very long time ago.
I had a mistress; I loved her.
She left me with memories bitter,
Corroding, eating my heart
As the acid eats into the steel
Etching the portrait triumphant.
Intolerable, indelible,
Never to be effaced.
A wife was mine to my heart,
Beautiful flower of my garden,
Lily I worshipped by day,
Scented rose of my nights.
Now the night wind sighing
Blows white rose petals only
Over the bed where she sleeps
Dreamless alone.
I had a son; I loved him.
Mother of God, bear witness
How all my manhood loved him
As thy womanhood loved thy Son!
When he was grown to his manhood
He crucified my heart,
And even as it hung bleeding
He laughed with his bold companions,
Mocked and turned away
With laughter into the night.
Those three I loved and lost;
But there was one who loved me
With all the fire of her heart.
Mine was the sacred altar
Where she burnt her life for my worship.
She was my slave, my servant;
Mine all she had, all she was,
All she could suffer, could be.
That was the love of my life,
I did not say, 'She loves me';
I was so used to her love
I never asked its name,
Till, feeling the wind blow cold
Where all the doors were left open,
And seeing a fireless hearth
And the garden deserted and weed-grown
That once was full of flowers for me,
I said, 'What has changed? What is it
That has made all the clocks stop?'
Thus I asked and they answered:
'It is thy mother who is dead.'
And now I am alone.
My son, too, some day will stand
Here, where I stand and weep.
He too will weep, knowing too late
The love that wrapped round his life.
Dear God spare him this:
Let him never know how I loved him,
For he was always weak.
He could not endure as I can.
Mother, my dear, ask God
To grant me this, for my son!
Scheme | Abcxdecf AghdbID xcgjfkl ahdID xmxehkjx ddnxomj ngpxhqxr sesgxnhcpx xqndxoxqtqxxlgxrqxxxx rxxxtxsxixg |
---|---|
Poetic Form | |
Metre | 111001011 101001010 10001010 1111011 1111010 10110010 1001110 100111 111001011 01101110 110011110 10010110 11110101 011011011 0110110 11100111 11110110 11101110 11110111 1101101 11001110 0101111 01101011 1110110 1011110 011011011 0110110 111111 11110110 01011011 0111111 111110110 10111110 101101011 0101101 11010110 111110010 11011 101010101 10010010 010000100 10111 0111111 100101110 1011011 101111 101110 1111010 1001111 101 1101111 1011110 111111 1110111 1111111 11011 01011110 11111010 10101 1100101 111101 1111111 11010101 1101010 111011110 1111110 1111111 1111011 1101111 1111111 1111101 110111 1100111 11010110 010011 0010010011 111111011 11111111 1111011 1110110 11110111 011101 1111111 111101 11111011 0111111 11111 111011111 11111 11101111 101111 1111111 |
Closest metre | Iambic tetrameter |
Characters | 2,786 |
Words | 574 |
Sentences | 28 |
Stanzas | 10 |
Stanza Lengths | 8, 7, 7, 5, 8, 7, 8, 10, 21, 11 |
Lines Amount | 92 |
Letters per line (avg) | 24 |
Words per line (avg) | 6 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 220 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 57 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 2:51 min read
- 106 Views
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"From The Portuguese" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 2 Jun 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/8828/from-the-portuguese>.
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