At the Funeral of a Minor Poet
. . . Room in your heart for him, O Mother Earth,Who loved each flower and leaf that made you fair,And sang your praise in verses manifoldAnd delicate, with here and there a lineFrom end to end in blossom like a boughThe May breathes on, so rich it was. Some thoughtThe workmanship more costly than the thingMoulded or carved, as in those ornamentsFound at Mycaene. And yet Nature's selfWorks in this wise; upon a blade of grass,Or what small note she lends the woodland thrush,Lavishing endless patience. He was bornArtist, not artisan, which some few sawAnd many dreamed not. As he wrote no odesWhen Croesus wedded or Maecenas died,And gave no breath to civic feasts and shows,He missed the glare that gilds more facile men--A twilight poet, groping quite alone,Belated, in a sphere where every nestIs emptied of its music and its wings.Not great his gift; yet we can poorly spareEven his slight perfection in an ageOf limping triolets and tame rondeaux.He had at least ideals, though unreached,And heard, far off, immortal harmonies,Such as fall coldly on our ear to-day.The mighty Zolaistic Movement nowEngrosses us--a miasmatic breathBlown from the slums. We paint life as it is,The hideous side of it, with careful pains,Making a god of the dull Commonplace.For have we not the old gods overthrownAnd set up strangest idols? We could clipImagination's wing and kill delight,Our sole art being to leave nothing outThat renders art offensive. Not for usMadonnas leaning from their starry thronesIneffable, nor any heaven-wrought dreamOf sculptor or of poet; we preferSuch nightmare visions as in morbid brainsTake shape and substance, thoughts that taint the airAnd make all life unlovely. Will it last?Beauty alone endures from age to age,From age to age endures, handmaid of God.Poets who walk with her on earth go henceBearing a talisman. You bury one,With his hushed music, in some Potter's Field;The snows and rains blot out his very name,As he from life seems blotted: through Time's glassSlip the invisible and magic sandsThat mark the century, then falls a dayThe world is suddenly conscious of a flower,Imperishable, ever to be prized,Sprung from the mould of a forgotten grave.'Tis said the seeds wrapt up among the balmsAnd hieroglyphics of Egyptian kingsHold strange vitality, and, planted, growAfter the lapse of thrice a thousand years.Some day, perchance, some unregarded noteOf our poor friend here--some sweet minor chordThat failed to lure our more accustomed ear--May witch the fancy of an unborn age.Who knows, since seeds have such tenacity?Meanwhile he's dead, with scantiest laurel wonAnd little of our Nineteenth Century gold.So, take him, Earth, and this his mortal part,With that shrewd alchemy thou hast, transmuteTo flower and leaf in thine unending Springs!
Words in this poem 21
- artist n.
- One who practices some mechanic art or craft; an artisan. [F. artiste, LL. artista, fr. L. ars. See Art, n., and cf. Artiste.]
- wrote v. i.
- To root with the snout. See 1st Root. [OE. wroten. See 1st Root.]
- croesus n.
- A king of Lydia who flourished in the 6th century b. c., and was renowned for his vast wealth; hence, a common appellation for a very rich man; as, he is veritable Croesus.
- wedded a.
- Joined in wedlock; married.
- civic a.
- Relating to, or derived from, a city or citizen; relating to man as a member of society, or to civil affairs. Civic crown (Rom. [L.civicus, fr. civis citizen. See City.]
- glare v. i.
- To shine with a bright, dazzling light. [OE. glaren, gloren; cf. AS. glær amber, LG. glaren to glow or burn like coals, D. gloren to glimmer; prob. akin to E. glass.]
- facile a.
- Easy to be done or performed: not difficult; performable or attainable with little labor. [L. facilis, prop., capable of being done or made, hence, facile, easy, fr. facere to make, do: cf. F. facile. Srr Fact, and cf. Faculty.]
- belated a.
- Delayed beyond the usual time; too late; overtaken by night; benighted.
- coldly adv.
- In a cold manner; without warmth, animation, or feeling; with indifference; calmly.
- miasmatic a.
- Containing, or relating to, miasma; caused by miasma; as, miasmatic diseases. [Cf. F. miasmatique.]
- starry a.
- Abounding with stars; adorned with stars.
- sculptor n.
- One who sculptures; one whose occupation is to carve statues, or works of sculpture. [L. sculptor, fr. sculpere, sculptum, to carve; cf. scalpere to cut, carve, scratch, and Gr. sculpteur.]
- unlovely a.
- Not lovely; not amiable; possessing qualities that excite dislike; disagreeable; displeasing; unpleasant.
- handmaid n.
- A maid that waits at hand; a female servant or attendant.
- mould n.
- Crumbling, soft, friable earth; esp., earth containing the remains or constituents of organic matter, and suited to the growth of plants; soil. [OE. molde, AS. molde; akin to D. mul, G. mull, mulm, OHG. molt, molta, Icel. mold, Dan. muld, Sw. mull, Goth. mulda, and E. meal flour. See Meal, and cf. Mole a]
- unborn a.
- Not born; no yet brought into life; being still to appear; future.
- meanwhile n.
- The intervening time; as, in the meantime (or mean time).
- nineteenth a.
- Following the eighteenth and preceding the twentieth; coming after eighteen others. [Cf. AS. nigonteó.]
- shrewd a.
- Inclining to shrew; disposing to curse or scold; hence, vicious; malicious; evil; wicked; mischievous; vexatious; rough; unfair; shrewish. [Originally the p. p. of shrew, v.t.]
- hast
- , 2d pers. sing. pres. of. Fave, contr. of havest.
- transmute v. t.
- To change from one nature, form, or substance, into another; to transform. [L. transmutare, transmutatum; trans across + mutare to change. See Mutable, and cf. Transmew.]
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
At the Funeral of a Minor Poet is in the public domain. This text is taken from The Sisters' Tragedy, with Other Poems, Lyrical and Dramatic, Project Gutenberg ebook #595; 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 Bailey Aldrich, At the Funeral of a Minor Poet, in The Sisters' Tragedy, with Other Poems (1891), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #595, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/aldrich-poems/at-the-funeral-of-a-minor-poet.html, id L10752.
Form and metre
At the Funeral of a Minor Poet is 68 lines in a single verse paragraph. It is unrhymed, as far as the pronouncing dictionary can tell. The metre is iambic pentameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 86%). 90% of its stressed syllables fall where the metre puts the beat. The lines average 9.9 syllables. 4 lines end on an unstressed syllable, a feminine ending. 52% of the lines run on without a stop at the line end.
See other poems in iambic pentameter, other poems in blank verse.
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 ------------------------A---A--------------------------------------- earth · fair · manifold · line · bough · thought · thing · ornaments · self · grass · thrush · born · saw · odes · died · shows · men · alone · nest · wings · spare · age · rondeaux · unreached · harmoniesA · day · now · breath · isA · pains · commonplace · overthrown · clip · delight · out · us · thrones · dream · prefer · brains · air · last · age · god · hence · one · field · name · glass · sands · day · flower · prized · grave · balms · kings · grow · years · note · chord · ear · age · tenacity · won · gold · part · transmute · springs
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 pentameter. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| . . . Room in your heart for him, O Mother Earth, | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| Who loved each flower and leaf that made you fair, | 10 | ···/······ |
| And sang your praise in verses manifold | 10 | ·····/˘/˘· |
| And delicate, with here and there a line | 10 | ·/˘˘······ |
| From end to end in blossom like a bough | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| The May breathes on, so rich it was. Some thought | 10 | ·········· |
| The workmanship more costly than the thing | 10 | ·/˘··/˘··· |
| Moulded or carved, as in those ornaments | 10 | /˘·····/˘˘ |
| Found at Mycaene. And yet Nature's self | 9 | ······/˘· |
| Works in this wise; upon a blade of grass, | 10 | ·········· |
| Or what small note she lends the woodland thrush, | 10 | ·······/·· |
| Lavishing endless patience. He was born | 10 | /˘˘/˘/˘··· |
| Artist, not artisan, which some few saw | 10 | /˘·/˘˘···· |
| And many dreamed not. As he wrote no odes | 10 | ·/˘······· |
| When Croesus wedded or Maecenas died, | 10 | ·/˘/˘····· |
| And gave no breath to civic feasts and shows, | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| He missed the glare that gilds more facile men-- | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| A twilight poet, groping quite alone, | 10 | ·/·/˘/˘·˘/ |
| Belated, in a sphere where every nest | 10 | ˘/˘····/˘· |
| Is emptied of its music and its wings. | 10 | ·/˘··/˘··· |
| Not great his gift; yet we can poorly spare | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| Even his slight perfection in an age | 10 | /˘··˘/˘··· |
| Of limping triolets and tame rondeaux. | 9 | ·/˘······ |
| He had at least ideals, though unreached, | 10 | ····˘/···˘ |
| And heard, far off, immortal harmonies, | 10 | ····˘/˘/˘˘ |
| Such as fall coldly on our ear to-day. | 10 | ···/˘·/··· |
| The mighty Zolaistic Movement now | 9 | ·/˘···/˘· |
| Engrosses us--a miasmatic breath | 9 | ˘/˘······ |
| Blown from the slums. We paint life as it is, | 10 | ·········· |
| The hideous side of it, with careful pains, | 10 | ·/˘····/˘· |
| Making a god of the dull Commonplace. | 10 | /˘·····/˘· |
| For have we not the old gods overthrown | 10 | ········˘/ |
| And set up strangest idols? We could clip | 10 | ···/˘/˘··· |
| Imagination's wing and kill delight, | 10 | ˘·˘/˘···˘/ |
| Our sole art being to leave nothing out | 10 | /··/˘··/˘· |
| That renders art offensive. Not for us | 10 | ·/˘·˘/˘··· |
| Madonnas leaning from their starry thrones | 10 | ˘/˘/˘··/˘· |
| Ineffable, nor any heaven-wrought dream | 10 | ˘/˘˘·/˘/·· |
| Of sculptor or of poet; we prefer | 10 | ·/˘··/˘·˘/ |
| Such nightmare visions as in morbid brains | 10 | ·/·/˘··/˘· |
| Take shape and substance, thoughts that taint the air | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| And make all life unlovely. Will it last? | 10 | ····˘/˘··· |
| Beauty alone endures from age to age, | 10 | /˘˘/˘/···· |
| From age to age endures, handmaid of God. | 10 | ····˘/···· |
| Poets who walk with her on earth go hence | 10 | /˘········ |
| Bearing a talisman. You bury one, | 10 | /˘·/˘˘·/˘· |
| With his hushed music, in some Potter's Field; | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| The snows and rains blot out his very name, | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| As he from life seems blotted: through Time's glass | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| Slip the invisible and magic sands | 10 | ··˘/˘˘·/˘· |
| That mark the century, then falls a day | 10 | ···/˘˘···· |
| The world is suddenly conscious of a flower, | 10 | ···/˘/˘··/ |
| Imperishable, ever to be prized, | 10 | ˘/˘˘˘/˘··· |
| Sprung from the mould of a forgotten grave. | 10 | ······˘/˘· |
| 'Tis said the seeds wrapt up among the balms | 10 | ·········· |
| And hieroglyphics of Egyptian kings | 10 | ··˘/˘·˘/˘· |
| Hold strange vitality, and, planted, grow | 10 | ··˘/˘˘·/˘· |
| After the lapse of thrice a thousand years. | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| Some day, perchance, some unregarded note | 10 | ··˘/······ |
| Of our poor friend here--some sweet minor chord | 10 | ·/·····/˘· |
| That failed to lure our more accustomed ear-- | 10 | ····/·˘/˘· |
| May witch the fancy of an unborn age. | 10 | ···/˘··//· |
| Who knows, since seeds have such tenacity? | 10 | ······˘/˘˘ |
| Meanwhile he's dead, with scantiest laurel won | 10 | /······/˘· |
| And little of our Nineteenth Century gold. | 10 | ·/˘·////˘· |
| So, take him, Earth, and this his mortal part, | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| With that shrewd alchemy thou hast, transmute | 10 | ···/˘˘··˘/ |
| To flower and leaf in thine unending Springs! | 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.