The Son in Old Age
Thy noble face, Regina, calls to mindMy poor lost little one, my latest born.He was a gift from God--a sign of pardon--That child vouchsafed me in my eightieth year!I to his little cradle went, and went,And even while 'twas sleeping, talked to it.For when one's very old, one is a child!Then took it up and placed it on my knees,And with both hands stroked down its soft, light hair--Thou wert not born then--and he would stammerThose pretty little sounds that make one smile!And though not twelve months old, he had a mind.He recognized me--nay, knew me right well,And in my face would laugh--and that child-laugh,Oh, poor old man! 'twas sunlight to my heart.I meant him for a soldier, ay, a conqueror,And named him George. One day--oh, bitter thought!The child played in the fields. When thou art mother,Ne'er let thy children out of sight to play!The gypsies took him from me--oh, for what?Perhaps to kill him at a witch's rite.I weep!--now, after twenty years--I weepAs if 'twere yesterday. I loved him so!I used to call him "my own little king!"I was intoxicated with my joyWhen o'er my white beard ran his rosy hands,Thrilling me all through.
Words in this poem
- eightieth a.
- The next in order after seventy-ninth. [From Eighty.]
- went n.
- Course; way; path; journey; direction.
- thrilling a.
- Causing a thrill; causing tremulous excitement; deeply moving; as, a thrilling romance.
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
The Son in Old Age is in the public domain. This text is taken from Poems, Project Gutenberg ebook #8775, the various hands translation; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Victor Hugo, The Son in Old Age, in Poems (1888), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #8775, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/hugo-poems/the-son-in-old-age.html, id L26883.
Form and metre
The Son in Old Age is 27 lines in a single stanza. The metre is iambic pentameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 88%).
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 A----------A--------------- mindA · born · pardon · year · went · it · child · knees · hair · stammer · smile · mindA · well · laugh · heart · conqueror · thought · mother · play · what · rite · weep · so · king · joy · hands · through
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 |
|---|---|---|
| Thy noble face, Regina, calls to mind | 10 | ·/˘·˘/˘··· |
| My poor lost little one, my latest born. | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| He was a gift from God--a sign of pardon-- | 11 | ·········/˘ |
| That child vouchsafed me in my eightieth year! | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| I to his little cradle went, and went, | 10 | ···/˘/˘··· |
| And even while 'twas sleeping, talked to it. | 10 | ·/˘··/˘··· |
| For when one's very old, one is a child! | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| Then took it up and placed it on my knees, | 10 | ·········· |
| And with both hands stroked down its soft, light hair-- | 10 | ·········· |
| Thou wert not born then--and he would stammer | 10 | ········/˘ |
| Those pretty little sounds that make one smile! | 10 | ·/˘/˘····· |
| And though not twelve months old, he had a mind. | 10 | ·········· |
| He recognized me--nay, knew me right well, | 10 | ·/˘······· |
| And in my face would laugh--and that child-laugh, | 10 | ·········· |
| Oh, poor old man! 'twas sunlight to my heart. | 10 | ·····/···· |
| I meant him for a soldier, ay, a conqueror, | 11 | ·····/˘··/˘ |
| And named him George. One day--oh, bitter thought! | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| The child played in the fields. When thou art mother, | 11 | ·········/˘ |
| Ne'er let thy children out of sight to play! | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| The gypsies took him from me--oh, for what? | 10 | ·/˘······· |
| Perhaps to kill him at a witch's rite. | 10 | ˘/·····/˘· |
| I weep!--now, after twenty years--I weep | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| As if 'twere yesterday. I loved him so! | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| I used to call him "my own little king!" | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| I was intoxicated with my joy | 10 | ··˘/˘·˘··· |
| When o'er my white beard ran his rosy hands, | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| Thrilling me all through. | 5 | /˘··· |
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.