Sargent's Portrait of Edwin Booth at "The Players"
That face which no man ever sawAnd from his memory banished quite,With eyes in which are Hamlet's aweAnd Cardinal Richelieu's subtle light,Looks from this frame. A master's handHas set the master-player here,In the fair temple that he plannedNot for himself. To us most dearThis image of him! "It was thusHe looked; such pallor touched his cheek;With that same grace he greeted us--Nay, 'tis the man, could it but speak!"Sad words that shall be said some day--Far fall the day! O cruel Time,Whose breath sweeps mortal things away,Spare long this image of his prime,That others standing in the placeWhere, save as ghosts, we come no more,May know what sweet majestic faceThe gentle Prince of Players wore!
How could I have failed?A mask may hide your features, not your soul.There is an air about you like the airThat folds a star. A blind man knows the night,And feels the constellations. No coarse senseOf eye or ear had made you plain to me.Through these I had not found you; for your eyes,As blue as violets of our Novgorod,Look black behind your mask there, and your voice--I had not known that either. My heart said,"Pauline Pavlovna."
He is one of the sixIn scarlet kaftans and all masked alike.Watch--you will note how every one bows downBefore those figures, thinking each by chanceMay be the Tsar; yet none knows which is he.Even his counterparts are left in doubt.Unhappy Russia! No serf ever woreSuch chains as gall our Emperor these sad days.He dare trust no man.
No; all, all!I think there is no truth left in the world,In man or woman. Once were noble souls.--Count Sergius, is Nastasia here to-night?
Ah! then you know! I thought to tell you first.Not here, beneath these hundred curious eyes,In all this glare of light; but in some placeWhere I could throw me at your feet and weep.In what shape came the story to your ear?Decked in the teller's colors, I'll be sworn;The truth, but in the livery of a lie,And so must wrong me. Only this is true:The Tsar, because I risked my wretched lifeTo shield a life as wretched as my own,Bestows upon me, as supreme reward--O irony!--the hand of this poor girl.YOUR JOY'S DECREED, and stabs me with a smile.
I know not, indeed.Likes me, perhaps. What matters it?--HER love!The guardian, Sidor Yurievich, consents,And she consents. No love in it at all,A mere caprice, a young girl's spring-tide dream.Sick of her ear-rings, weary of her mare,She'll have a lover--something ready-made,Or improvised between two cups of tea--A lover by imperial ukase!Fate said her word--I chanced to be the man!If that grenade the crazy student threwHad not spared me, as well as spared the Tsar,All this would not have happened. I'd have beenA hero, but quite safe from her romance.She takes me for a hero--think of that!Now by our holy Lady of Kazan,When I have finished pitying myself,I'll pity her.
Oh no; begin with her;She needs it most.
At her door lies the blame,Whatever falls. She, with a single word,With half a tear, had stopt it at the first,This cruel juggling with poor human hearts.
The Tsar does what she wills--God fathoms why.Were she his mistress, now! but there's no snowWhiter within the bosom of a cloud,Nor colder either. She is very haughty,For all her fragile air of gentleness;With something vital in her, like those flowersThat on our desolate steppes outlast the year.Resembles you in some things. It was thatFirst made us friends. I do her justice, see!For we were friends in that smooth surface wayWe Russians have imported out of France.Alas! from what a blue and tranquil heavenThis bolt fell on me! After these two years,My suit with Ossip Leminoff at end,The old wrong righted, the estates restored,And my promotion, with the ink not dry!Those fairies which neglected me at birthSeemed now to lavish all good gifts on me--Gold roubles, office, sudden dearest friends.The whole world smiled; then, as I stooped to tasteThe sweetest cup, freak dashed it from my lip.This very night--just think, this very night--I planned to come and beg of you the almsI dared not ask for in my poverty.I thought me poor then. How stript am I now!There's not a ragged mendicant one meetsAlong the Nevski Prospekt but has leaveTo tell his love, and I have not that right!Pauline Pavlovna, why do you stand thereStark as a statue, with no word to say?
Because this thing has frozen up my heart.I think that there is something killed in me,A dream that would have mocked all other bliss.What shall I say? What would you have me say?
Well, then--I love you. I may tell you soThis once, . . . and then forever hold my peace.We cannot stay here longer unobserved.No--do not touch me! but stand further off,And seem to laugh, as if we jested--eyes,Eyes everywhere! Now turn your face away . . .I love you.
Pauline,I have three things to choose from; you shall choose:This marriage, or Siberia, or France.The first means hell; the second, purgatory;The third--with you--were nothing less than heaven!
I was mad.This business has touched me in the brain.Have patience! the calamity's so new.(Pauses.)There is a fourth way; but that gate is shutTo brave men who hold life a thing of God.
Not a ray of hope!His mind is set on this with that insistenceWhich seems to seize on all match-making folk.The fancy bites them, and they straight go mad.
Alas, he too is bitten!Gray-haired, gray-hearted, worldly wise, he seesThis marriage makes me the Tsar's protege,And opens every door to preference.
Beg love. She is a woman, young, perhapsUntouched as yet of this too poisonous air.Were she told all, would she not pity us?For if she love you, as I think she must,Would not some generous impulse stir in her,Some latent, unsuspected spark illume?How love thrills even commonest girl-clay,Ennobling it an instant, if no more!You said that she is proud; then touch her pride,And turn her into marble with the touch.But yet the gentler passion is the stronger.Go to her, tell her, in some tenderest phraseThat will not hurt too much--ah, but 'twill hurt!--Just how your happiness lies in her handTo make or mar for all time; hint, not say,Your heart is gone from you, and you may find--
A casemate in St. Peter and St. PaulFor, say, a month; then some Siberian town.Not this way lies escape. At my first wordThat sluggish Tartar blood would turn to fireIn every vein.
How blindly you read her,Or any woman! Yes, I know. I grantHow small we often seem in our small worldOf trivial cares and narrow precedents--Lacking that wide horizon stretched for men--Capricious, spiteful, frightened at a mouse;But when it comes to suffering mortal pangs,The weakest of us measures pulse with you.
Yes, you, not she. If she were at your height!But there's no martyr wrapt in HER rose flesh.There should have been; for Nature gave you bothThe self-same purple for your eyes and hair,The self-same Southern music to your lips,Fashioned you both, as 'twere, in the same mould,Yet failed to put the soul in one of you!I know her wilful--her light head quite turnedIn this court atmosphere of flatteries;A Moscow beauty, petted and spoiled there,And since spoiled here; as soft as swan's down now,With words like honey melting from the comb,But being crossed, vindictive, cruel, cold.I fancy her, between two rosy smiles,Saying, "Poor fellow, in the Nertchinsk mines!"That is the sum of her.
You know her not.Count Sergius Pavlovich, you said no maskCould hide the soul, yet how you have mistakenThe soul these two months--and the face to-night!
Good sir, have you seen pass this wayA mischief straight from market-day?You'd know her at a glance, I think;Her eyes are blue, her lips are pink;She has a way of looking backOver her shoulder, and, alack!Who gets that look one time, good sir,Has naught to do but follow her.
Nay, a simple swainThat tends his flock on yonder plain,Naught else, I swear by book and bell.But she that passed--you marked her well.Was she not smooth as any beThat dwell herein in Arcady?
The peach's sideThat's next the sun is not so dyedAs was her cheek. Her hair hung downLike summer twilight falling brown;And when the breeze swept by, I wistHer face was in a sombre mist.
No, that is not the maid I seek.HER hair lies gold against the cheek;Her yellow tresses take the mornLike silken tassels of the corn.And yet--brown locks are far from bad.
Now I bethink me, this one hadA figure like the willow-treeWhich, slight and supple, wondrouslyInclines to droop with pensive grace,And still retains its proper place;A foot so arched and very smallThe marvel was she walked at all;Her hand--in sooth I lack for words--Her hand, five slender snow-white birds.Her voice--though she but said "God-speed"--Was melody blown through a reed;The girl Pan changed into a pipeHad not a note so full and ripe.And then her eye--my lad, her eye!Discreet, inviting, candid, shy,An outward ice, an inward fire,And lashes to the heart's desire--Soft fringes blacker than the sloe.
So, he is off! The silly youthKnoweth not Love in sober sooth.He loves--thus lads at first are blind--No woman, only Womankind.I needs must laugh, for, by the Mass,No maid at all did this way pass!
Words in this poem 34
- pallor n.
- Paleness; want of color; pallidity; as, pallor of the complexion. Jer. Taylor. [L., fr. pallere to be or look pale. See Pale, a.]
- shall v. i.
- To owe; to be under obligation for. [OE. shal, schal, imp. sholde, scholde, AS. scal, sceal, I am obliged, imp. scolde, sceolde, inf. sculan; akin to OS. skulan, pres. skal, imp. skolda, D. zullen,]
- pauline a.
- Of or pertaining to the apostle Paul, or his writings; resembling, or conforming to, the writings of Paul; as, the Pauline epistles; Pauline doctrine. [L. Paulinus, fr. Paulus Paul.]
- tsar n.
- The title of the emperor of Russia. See Czar.
- curious a.
- Difficult to please or satisfy; solicitous to be correct; careful; scrupulous; nice; exact. [OF. curios, curius, F. curieux, L. curiosus careful, inquisitive, fr. cura care. See Cure.]
- 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.]
- ukase n.
- In Russia, a published proclamation or imperial order, having the force of law. [F., fr. Russ. ukas'; pref. u- + kazate to show, to say.]
- pitying a.
- Expressing pity; as, a pitying eye, glance, or word.
- needs adv.
- Of necessity; necessarily; indispensably; -- often with must, and equivalent to of need. [Orig. gen. of need, used as an adverb. Cf. - wards.]
- haughty a.
- High; lofty; bold. [OE. hautein, F. hautain, fr. haut high, OF. also halt, fr. L. altus. See Altitude.]
- outlast v. t.
- To exceed in duration; to survive; to endure longer than.
- stark adv.
- Wholly; entirely; absolutely; quite; as, stark mind.
- purgatory a.
- Tending to cleanse; cleansing; expiatory. Burke. [L. purgatorius.]
- insistence n.
- The quality of insisting, or being urgent or pressing; the act of dwelling upon as of special importance; persistence; urgency.
- folk n.
- In Anglo-Saxon times, the people of a group of townships or villages; a community; a tribe. [AS. folc; akin to D. volk, OS. & OHG. folk, G. volk, Icel. f, Sw. & Dan. folk, Lith. pulkas crowd, and perh. to E. follow.]
- protege n.
- One under the care and protection of another. [F., p. p. of protéger. See Protect.]
- generous a.
- Of honorable birth or origin; highborn. [F. généreux, fr. L. generous of noble birth, noble, excellent, magnanimous, fr. genus birth, race: cf. It. generoso. See 2d Gender.]
- illume v. t.
- To throw or spread light upon; to make light or bright; to illuminate; to illumine. [Cf. F. illuminer. See Illuminate.]
- casemate n.
- A bombproof chamber, usually of masonry, in which cannon may be placed, to be fired through embrasures; or one capable of being used as a magazine, or for quartering troops. [F. casemate, fr. It. casamatta, prob. from casa house + matto, f. matta, mad, weak, feeble, dim. from the same source as E. -mate in checkmate.]
- siberian a.
- Of or pertaining to Siberia, a region comprising all northern Asia and belonging to Russia; as, a Siberian winter. [From Siberia, Russ. Sibire.]
- blindly adv.
- Without sight, discernment, or understanding; without thought, investigation, knowledge, or purpose of one's own.
- trivial a.
- Found anywhere; common. [L. trivialis, properly, that is in, or belongs to, the crossroads or public streets; hence, that may be found everywhere, common, fr. trivium a place where thre]
- 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]
- vindictive a.
- Disposed to revenge; prompted or characterized by revenge; revengeful. [For vindicative, confused with L. vindicta revenge, punishment, fr. vindicare to vindicate. Cf. Vindicative.]
- alack interj.
- An exclamation expressive of sorrow. [Prob. from ah! lack! OE. lak loss, failure, misfortune. See Lack.]
- yonder adv.
- At a distance, but within view. [OE. yonder, ýonder; cf. OD. ginder, Goth. jaindr there. Yond, adv.]
- dwell v. i.
- To delay; to linger. [OE. dwellen, dwelien, to err, linger, AS. dwellan to deceive, hinder, delay, dwelian to err; akin to Icel. dvelja to delay, tarry, Sw. dväljas to dwell, Dan. dv]
- sombre n.
- Gloom; obscurity; duskiness; somberness.
- morn n.
- The first part of the day; the morning; -- used chiefly in poetry. [OE. morwen, morgen, AS. morgen; akin to D. morgen, OS. morgan, G. morgen, Icel. morginn, morgunn, Sw. morgon, Dan. morgen, Goth. maúrgins. Cf. Morrow, Morning.]
- sooth a.
- True; faithful; trustworthy. [OE. soth, AS. s, for san; akin to OS. s, OHG. sand, Icel. sannr, Sw. sann, Dan. sand, Skr. sat, sant, real, genuine, present, being; properly p. pr. from a root]
- discreet a.
- Possessed of discernment, especially in avoiding error or evil, and in the adaptation of means to ends; prudent; sagacious; judicious; not rash or heedless; cautious. [F. discret, L. discretus separated (whence the meaning reserved, prudent), p. p. of discernere. See Discern, and cf. Discrete.]
- inviting a.
- Alluring; tempting; as, an inviting amusement or prospect.
- sloe n.
- A small, bitter, wild European plum, the fruit of the blackthorn (Prunus spinosa); also, the tree itself. [OE. slo, AS. sla; akin to D. slee, G. schlehe, OHG. sl$ha, Dan. slaaen, Sw. sl, perhaps originally, that which blunts the teeth, or sets them on edge (cf. Slow)]
- womankind n.
- The females of the human race; women, collectively.
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
Sargent's Portrait of Edwin Booth at "The Players" 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, Sargent's Portrait of Edwin Booth at "The Players", in The Sisters' Tragedy, with Other Poems (1891), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #595, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/aldrich-poems/sargent-s-portrait-of-edwin-booth-at-the-players.html, id L10772.
Form and metre
Sargent's Portrait of Edwin Booth at "The Players" is 239 lines in 26 stanzas. The metre is iambic pentameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 86%). 96% of its stressed syllables fall where the metre puts the beat. The lines average 9.1 syllables. 20 lines end on an unstressed syllable, a feminine ending. 25% of the lines run on without a stop at the line end.
See other poems in iambic pentameter.
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 ABABCDCDEFEFGHGHIJIJ sawA · quiteB · aweA · lightB · handC · hereD · plannedC · dearD · thusE · cheekF · usE · speakF · dayG · timeH · awayG · primeH · placeI · moreJ · faceI · woreJ
- 6 ------------A--A-- indeed · love · consents · all · dream · mare · made · tea · ukase · man · threw · tsar · beenA · romance · that · kazanA · myself · her
- 9 A-------BC-----A-B---D-----D-C whyA · snow · cloud · haughty · gentleness · flowers · year · that · seeB · wayC · france · heaven · years · end · restored · dryA · birth · meB · friends · taste · lip · nightD · alms · poverty · now · meets · leave · rightD · there · sayC
- 12 A---A paulineA · choose · france · purgatory · heavenA
- 16 ------A-------A- perhaps · air · us · must · her · illume · clayA · more · pride · touch · stronger · phrase · hurt · hand · sayA · find
- 19 ---A-B---A--B--- height · flesh · both · hairA · lips · mouldB · you · turned · flatteries · thereA · now · comb · coldB · smiles · mines · her
- 21 AABBCCDD wayA · dayA · thinkB · pinkB · backC · alackC · sirD · herD
- 22 AABB-- swainA · plainA · bellB · wellB · be · arcady
- 23 AABBCC sideA · dyedA · downB · brownB · wistC · mistC
- 24 AABB- seekA · cheekA · mornB · cornB · bad
- 25 ---AABBCCDDEEFFGG- had · tree · wondrously · graceA · placeA · smallB · allB · wordsC · birdsC · speedD · reedD · pipeE · ripeE · eyeF · shyF · fireG · desireG · sloe
- 26 AABBCC youthA · soothA · blindB · womankindB · massC · passC
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 |
|---|---|---|
| That face which no man ever saw | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| And from his memory banished quite, | 10 | ···/˘˘/˘˘· |
| With eyes in which are Hamlet's awe | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| And Cardinal Richelieu's subtle light, | 10 | ·/˘˘/˘·/˘· |
| Looks from this frame. A master's hand | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Has set the master-player here, | 8 | ···/˘/˘· |
| In the fair temple that he planned | 9 | ···/˘···˘ |
| Not for himself. To us most dear | 8 | ··˘/···· |
| This image of him! "It was thus | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| He looked; such pallor touched his cheek; | 10 | ··˘·/˘·˘·· |
| With that same grace he greeted us-- | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Nay, 'tis the man, could it but speak!" | 8 | ········ |
| Sad words that shall be said some day-- | 8 | ········ |
| Far fall the day! O cruel Time, | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Whose breath sweeps mortal things away, | 8 | ···/˘·˘/ |
| Spare long this image of his prime, | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| That others standing in the place | 8 | ·/˘/˘··· |
| Where, save as ghosts, we come no more, | 8 | ········ |
| May know what sweet majestic face | 8 | ····˘/˘· |
| The gentle Prince of Players wore! | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| How could I have failed? | 5 | ····· |
| A mask may hide your features, not your soul. | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| There is an air about you like the air | 10 | ·········· |
| That folds a star. A blind man knows the night, | 10 | ·········· |
| And feels the constellations. No coarse sense | 10 | ····˘/˘··· |
| Of eye or ear had made you plain to me. | 10 | ·········· |
| Through these I had not found you; for your eyes, | 10 | ·········· |
| As blue as violets of our Novgorod, | 10 | ···/˘·//˘· |
| Look black behind your mask there, and your voice-- | 10 | ·········· |
| I had not known that either. My heart said, | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| "Pauline Pavlovna." | 5 | ˘/··· |
| He is one of the six | 6 | ······ |
| In scarlet kaftans and all masked alike. | 10 | ·/˘·····˘/ |
| Watch--you will note how every one bows down | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| Before those figures, thinking each by chance | 10 | ···/˘/˘··· |
| May be the Tsar; yet none knows which is he. | 10 | ·········· |
| Even his counterparts are left in doubt. | 10 | /˘·/˘····· |
| Unhappy Russia! No serf ever wore | 10 | ˘/˘/˘··/˘· |
| Such chains as gall our Emperor these sad days. | 10 | ····//˘··· |
| He dare trust no man. | 5 | ····· |
| No; all, all! | 3 | ··· |
| I think there is no truth left in the world, | 10 | ·········· |
| In man or woman. Once were noble souls.-- | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| Count Sergius, is Nastasia here to-night? | 10 | ·/˘······· |
| Ah! then you know! I thought to tell you first. | 10 | ·········· |
| Not here, beneath these hundred curious eyes, | 10 | ·····/˘/˘· |
| In all this glare of light; but in some place | 10 | ·········· |
| Where I could throw me at your feet and weep. | 10 | ·········· |
| In what shape came the story to your ear? | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| Decked in the teller's colors, I'll be sworn; | 10 | ···/˘/˘··· |
| The truth, but in the livery of a lie, | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| And so must wrong me. Only this is true: | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| The Tsar, because I risked my wretched life | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| To shield a life as wretched as my own, | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| Bestows upon me, as supreme reward-- | 10 | ˘/····˘/˘/ |
| O irony!--the hand of this poor girl. | 10 | ·/˘˘······ |
| YOUR JOY'S DECREED, and stabs me with a smile. | 10 | ··˘/······ |
| I know not, indeed. | 5 | ···˘/ |
| Likes me, perhaps. What matters it?--HER love! | 10 | ··˘/·/˘··· |
| The guardian, Sidor Yurievich, consents, | 10 | ·/˘/˘···˘/ |
| And she consents. No love in it at all, | 10 | ··˘/······ |
| A mere caprice, a young girl's spring-tide dream. | 10 | ··˘/······ |
| Sick of her ear-rings, weary of her mare, | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| She'll have a lover--something ready-made, | 10 | ···/˘/˘/˘· |
| Or improvised between two cups of tea-- | 10 | ·/˘······· |
| A lover by imperial ukase! | 10 | ·/˘·˘/˘˘/· |
| Fate said her word--I chanced to be the man! | 10 | ·········· |
| If that grenade the crazy student threw | 10 | ··˘/·/˘/˘· |
| Had not spared me, as well as spared the Tsar, | 10 | ·········· |
| All this would not have happened. I'd have been | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| A hero, but quite safe from her romance. | 10 | ·/˘·····˘/ |
| She takes me for a hero--think of that! | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| Now by our holy Lady of Kazan, | 11 | ··/˘/˘/˘·/˘ |
| When I have finished pitying myself, | 10 | ···/˘/˘˘·/ |
| I'll pity her. | 4 | ·/˘· |
| Oh no; begin with her; | 6 | ··˘/·· |
| She needs it most. | 4 | ···· |
| At her door lies the blame, | 6 | ······ |
| Whatever falls. She, with a single word, | 10 | ·/˘····/˘· |
| With half a tear, had stopt it at the first, | 10 | ·········· |
| This cruel juggling with poor human hearts. | 10 | ·//˘˘··/˘· |
| The Tsar does what she wills--God fathoms why. | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| Were she his mistress, now! but there's no snow | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| Whiter within the bosom of a cloud, | 10 | /˘···/˘··· |
| Nor colder either. She is very haughty, | 11 | ·/˘/˘··/˘/˘ |
| For all her fragile air of gentleness; | 10 | ···/˘··/˘˘ |
| With something vital in her, like those flowers | 11 | ·/˘/˘····/˘ |
| That on our desolate steppes outlast the year. | 10 | ··//˘·˘/·· |
| Resembles you in some things. It was that | 10 | ˘/˘······· |
| First made us friends. I do her justice, see! | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| For we were friends in that smooth surface way | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| We Russians have imported out of France. | 10 | ·/˘·˘/˘··· |
| Alas! from what a blue and tranquil heaven | 11 | ˘/·····/˘/˘ |
| This bolt fell on me! After these two years, | 10 | ·········· |
| My suit with Ossip Leminoff at end, | 10 | ·········· |
| The old wrong righted, the estates restored, | 10 | ···/˘·˘/˘/ |
| And my promotion, with the ink not dry! | 10 | ··˘/˘····· |
| Those fairies which neglected me at birth | 10 | ·/˘·˘/˘··· |
| Seemed now to lavish all good gifts on me-- | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| Gold roubles, office, sudden dearest friends. | 10 | ·/˘/˘/˘/˘· |
| The whole world smiled; then, as I stooped to taste | 10 | ·········· |
| The sweetest cup, freak dashed it from my lip. | 10 | ·/˘······· |
| This very night--just think, this very night-- | 10 | ·/˘····/˘· |
| I planned to come and beg of you the alms | 10 | ·········· |
| I dared not ask for in my poverty. | 10 | ·······/˘˘ |
| I thought me poor then. How stript am I now! | 10 | ·········· |
| There's not a ragged mendicant one meets | 10 | ···/˘/˘˘·· |
| Along the Nevski Prospekt but has leave | 10 | ˘/···/˘··· |
| To tell his love, and I have not that right! | 10 | ·········· |
| Pauline Pavlovna, why do you stand there | 10 | ˘/········ |
| Stark as a statue, with no word to say? | 10 | ···/······ |
| Because this thing has frozen up my heart. | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| I think that there is something killed in me, | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| A dream that would have mocked all other bliss. | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| What shall I say? What would you have me say? | 10 | ·········· |
| Well, then--I love you. I may tell you so | 10 | ·········· |
| This once, . . . and then forever hold my peace. | 10 | ····˘/˘··· |
| We cannot stay here longer unobserved. | 10 | ·/˘··/˘··· |
| No--do not touch me! but stand further off, | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| And seem to laugh, as if we jested--eyes, | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| Eyes everywhere! Now turn your face away . . . | 10 | ·/˘·····˘/ |
| I love you. | 3 | ··· |
| Pauline, | 2 | ˘/ |
| I have three things to choose from; you shall choose: | 10 | ·········· |
| This marriage, or Siberia, or France. | 10 | ·/˘·˘/˘˘·· |
| The first means hell; the second, purgatory; | 11 | ·····/˘/˘·˘ |
| The third--with you--were nothing less than heaven! | 11 | ·····/˘··/˘ |
| I was mad. | 3 | ··· |
| This business has touched me in the brain. | 10 | ·/˘··˘···· |
| Have patience! the calamity's so new. | 10 | ·/˘·˘/˘˘·· |
| (Pauses.) | 2 | /˘ |
| There is a fourth way; but that gate is shut | 10 | ·········· |
| To brave men who hold life a thing of God. | 10 | ·········· |
| Not a ray of hope! | 5 | ····· |
| His mind is set on this with that insistence | 11 | ········˘/˘ |
| Which seems to seize on all match-making folk. | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| The fancy bites them, and they straight go mad. | 10 | ·/˘······· |
| Alas, he too is bitten! | 7 | ˘/···/˘ |
| Gray-haired, gray-hearted, worldly wise, he sees | 10 | ···/˘/˘··· |
| This marriage makes me the Tsar's protege, | 10 | ·/˘····/˘· |
| And opens every door to preference. | 11 | ·/˘/˘˘··/˘˘ |
| Beg love. She is a woman, young, perhaps | 10 | ·····/˘·˘/ |
| Untouched as yet of this too poisonous air. | 10 | ˘/·····/˘· |
| Were she told all, would she not pity us? | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| For if she love you, as I think she must, | 10 | ·········· |
| Would not some generous impulse stir in her, | 10 | ···/˘/˘··· |
| Some latent, unsuspected spark illume? | 10 | ·/˘·˘/˘·˘/ |
| How love thrills even commonest girl-clay, | 10 | ···/˘/˘˘·· |
| Ennobling it an instant, if no more! | 10 | ˘/˘··/˘··· |
| You said that she is proud; then touch her pride, | 10 | ·········· |
| And turn her into marble with the touch. | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| But yet the gentler passion is the stronger. | 11 | ···/˘/˘··/˘ |
| Go to her, tell her, in some tenderest phrase | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| That will not hurt too much--ah, but 'twill hurt!-- | 10 | ·········· |
| Just how your happiness lies in her hand | 10 | ···/˘˘···· |
| To make or mar for all time; hint, not say, | 10 | ·········· |
| Your heart is gone from you, and you may find-- | 10 | ·········· |
| A casemate in St. Peter and St. Paul | 10 | ·/˘··/˘··· |
| For, say, a month; then some Siberian town. | 10 | ······˘/˘· |
| Not this way lies escape. At my first word | 10 | ····˘/···· |
| That sluggish Tartar blood would turn to fire | 11 | ·/˘/˘····/˘ |
| In every vein. | 5 | ·/˘˘· |
| How blindly you read her, | 6 | ·/˘··· |
| Or any woman! Yes, I know. I grant | 10 | ·/˘/˘····· |
| How small we often seem in our small world | 10 | ···/˘··/·· |
| Of trivial cares and narrow precedents-- | 11 | ·/˘˘··/˘/˘· |
| Lacking that wide horizon stretched for men-- | 10 | /˘··˘/˘··· |
| Capricious, spiteful, frightened at a mouse; | 10 | ˘/˘/˘/˘··· |
| But when it comes to suffering mortal pangs, | 10 | ·····/˘/˘· |
| The weakest of us measures pulse with you. | 10 | ·/˘··/˘··· |
| Yes, you, not she. If she were at your height! | 10 | ·········· |
| But there's no martyr wrapt in HER rose flesh. | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| There should have been; for Nature gave you both | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| The self-same purple for your eyes and hair, | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| The self-same Southern music to your lips, | 10 | ···/˘/˘··· |
| Fashioned you both, as 'twere, in the same mould, | 10 | /˘········ |
| Yet failed to put the soul in one of you! | 10 | ·········· |
| I know her wilful--her light head quite turned | 10 | ·········· |
| In this court atmosphere of flatteries; | 10 | ···/˘··/˘˘ |
| A Moscow beauty, petted and spoiled there, | 10 | ·/·/˘/˘··· |
| And since spoiled here; as soft as swan's down now, | 10 | ·········· |
| With words like honey melting from the comb, | 10 | ···/˘/˘··· |
| But being crossed, vindictive, cruel, cold. | 10 | ·/˘·˘/˘/˘· |
| I fancy her, between two rosy smiles, | 10 | ·/˘····/˘· |
| Saying, "Poor fellow, in the Nertchinsk mines!" | 10 | /˘·/˘····· |
| That is the sum of her. | 6 | ······ |
| You know her not. | 4 | ···· |
| Count Sergius Pavlovich, you said no mask | 10 | ·/˘/˘˘···· |
| Could hide the soul, yet how you have mistaken | 11 | ········˘/˘ |
| The soul these two months--and the face to-night! | 10 | ·········· |
| Good sir, have you seen pass this way | 8 | ········ |
| A mischief straight from market-day? | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| You'd know her at a glance, I think; | 8 | ········ |
| Her eyes are blue, her lips are pink; | 8 | ········ |
| She has a way of looking back | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Over her shoulder, and, alack! | 8 | ···/˘·˘/ |
| Who gets that look one time, good sir, | 8 | ········ |
| Has naught to do but follow her. | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Nay, a simple swain | 5 | ··/˘· |
| That tends his flock on yonder plain, | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Naught else, I swear by book and bell. | 8 | ········ |
| But she that passed--you marked her well. | 10 | ····˘··˘·· |
| Was she not smooth as any be | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| That dwell herein in Arcady? | 8 | ··˘/···· |
| The peach's side | 4 | ·/˘· |
| That's next the sun is not so dyed | 8 | ········ |
| As was her cheek. Her hair hung down | 8 | ········ |
| Like summer twilight falling brown; | 8 | ·/˘/·/˘· |
| And when the breeze swept by, I wist | 8 | ········ |
| Her face was in a sombre mist. | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| No, that is not the maid I seek. | 8 | ········ |
| HER hair lies gold against the cheek; | 8 | ········ |
| Her yellow tresses take the morn | 8 | ·/˘/˘··· |
| Like silken tassels of the corn. | 8 | ·/˘/˘··· |
| And yet--brown locks are far from bad. | 8 | ········ |
| Now I bethink me, this one had | 8 | ··˘/···· |
| A figure like the willow-tree | 8 | ·/˘··/·· |
| Which, slight and supple, wondrously | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| Inclines to droop with pensive grace, | 8 | ˘/···/˘· |
| And still retains its proper place; | 8 | ··˘/·/˘· |
| A foot so arched and very small | 9 | ····˘·/˘· |
| The marvel was she walked at all; | 9 | ·/˘···˘·· |
| Her hand--in sooth I lack for words-- | 8 | ········ |
| Her hand, five slender snow-white birds. | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| Her voice--though she but said "God-speed"-- | 8 | ········ |
| Was melody blown through a reed; | 8 | ·/˘˘···· |
| The girl Pan changed into a pipe | 9 | ····˘···· |
| Had not a note so full and ripe. | 8 | ········ |
| And then her eye--my lad, her eye! | 8 | ········ |
| Discreet, inviting, candid, shy, | 8 | ˘/˘/˘/˘· |
| An outward ice, an inward fire, | 9 | ·/˘··/˘/˘ |
| And lashes to the heart's desire-- | 9 | ·/˘···˘/˘ |
| Soft fringes blacker than the sloe. | 8 | ·/˘/˘··· |
| So, he is off! The silly youth | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Knoweth not Love in sober sooth. | 8 | /˘···/˘· |
| He loves--thus lads at first are blind-- | 8 | ········ |
| No woman, only Womankind. | 8 | ·/˘/˘/˘˘ |
| I needs must laugh, for, by the Mass, | 8 | ········ |
| No maid at all did this way pass! | 8 | ········ |
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.