On a Sun-Portrait of Her Husband, Sent by His Wife to Their Friend
Beautiful eyes,--and shall I see no moreThe living thought when it would leap from them,And play in all its sweetness 'neath their lids?
Here was a man familiar with fair heightsThat poets climb. Upon his peace the tearsAnd troubles of our race deep inroads made,Yet life was sweet to him; he kept his heartAt home. Who saw his wife might well have thought,--"God loves this man. He chose a wife for him,--The true one!" O sweet eyes, that seem to live,I know so much of you, tell me the rest!Eyes full of fatherhood and tender careFor small, young children. Is a message hereThat you would fain have sent, but had not time?If such there be, I promise, by long loveAnd perfect friendship, by all trust that comesOf understanding, that I will not fail,No, nor delay to find it.O, my heartWill often pain me as for some strange fault,--Some grave defect in nature,--when I thinkHow I, delighted, 'neath those olive-trees,Moved to the music of the tideless main,While, with sore weeping, in an island homeThey laid that much-loved head beneath the sod,And I did not know.
I stand on the bridge where last we stoodWhen young leaves played at their best.The children called us from yonder wood,And rock-doves crooned on the nest.
Ah, yet you call,--in your gladness call,--And I hear your pattering feet;It does not matter, matter at all,You fatherless children sweet,--
It does not matter at all to you,Young hearts that pleasure besets;The father sleeps, but the world is new,The child of his love forgets.
I too, it may be, before they drop,The leaves that flicker to-day,Ere bountiful gleams make ripe the crop,Shall pass from my place away:
Ere yon gray cygnet puts on her white,Or snow lies soft on the wold,Shall shut these eyes on the lovely light,And leave the story untold.
Shall I tell it there? Ah, let that be,For the warm pulse beats so high;To love to-day, and to breathe and see,--To-morrow perhaps to die,--
Leave it with God. But this I have known,That sorrow is over soon;Some in dark nights, sore weeping alone,Forget by full of the moon.
But if all loved, as the few can love,This world would seldom be well;And who need wish, if he dwells above,For a deep, a long death knell.
There are four or five, who, passing this place,While they live will name me yet;And when I am gone will think on my face,And feel a kind of regret.
Words in this poem
- 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,]
- fatherhood n.
- The state of being a father; the character or authority of a father; paternity.
- fain v. t.
- To be glad ; to wish or desire.
- delighted a.
- Endowed with delight.
- tideless a.
- Having no tide.
- yonder adv.
- At a distance, but within view. [OE. yonder, ýonder; cf. OD. ginder, Goth. jaindr there. Yond, adv.]
- fatherless a.
- Destitute of a living father; as, a fatherless child.
- flicker v. i.
- To flutter; to flap the wings without flying. [OE. flikeren, flekeren, to flutter, AS. flicerian, flicorian, cf. D. flikkeren to sparkle. Flacker.]
- bountiful a.
- Free in giving; liberal in bestowing gifts and favors.
- wold n.
- A wood; a forest. [OE. wold, wald, AS. weald, wald, a wood, forest; akin to OFries. & OS. wald, D. woud, G. wald, Icel. völlr, a field, and probably to Gr. va a garden, inclosure.]
- untold a.
- Not told; not related; not revealed; as, untold secrets.
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
On a Sun-Portrait of Her Husband, Sent by His Wife to Their Friend is in the public domain. This text is taken from Poems by Jean Ingelow, In Two Volumes, Volume I., Project Gutenberg ebook #13223; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Jean Ingelow, On a Sun-Portrait of Her Husband, Sent by His Wife to Their Friend, in Poems, Volume I (1863), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #13223, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/ingelow-poems/on-a-sun-portrait-of-her-husband-sent-by-his-wife-to-their-f.html, id L12845.
Form and metre
On a Sun-Portrait of Her Husband, Sent by His Wife to Their Friend is 62 lines in 11 stanzas. The rhyme scheme is ABAB, complete in 8 of its 11 stanzas. The metre is iambic tetrameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 80%). 94% of its stressed syllables fall where the metre puts the beat. The lines average 8.7 syllables. 19% of the lines run on without a stop at the line end.
See other poems in iambic tetrameter.
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.
- 2 ---A----BB-----A------- heights · tears · made · heartA · thought · him · live · rest · careB · hereB · time · love · comes · fail · it · heartA · fault · think · trees · main · home · sod · know
- 3 ABAB stoodA · bestB · woodA · nestB
- 4 ABAB callA · feetB · allA · sweetB
- 5 A-A- youA · besets · newA · forgets
- 6 ABAB dropA · dayB · cropA · awayB
- 7 ABAB whiteA · woldB · lightA · untoldB
- 8 ABAB beA · highB · seeA · dieB
- 9 ABAB knownA · soonB · aloneA · moonB
- 10 ABAB loveA · wellB · aboveA · knellB
- 11 ABAB placeA · yetB · faceA · regretB
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 tetrameter. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| Beautiful eyes,--and shall I see no more | 10 | /˘˘······· |
| The living thought when it would leap from them, | 10 | ·/˘······· |
| And play in all its sweetness 'neath their lids? | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| Here was a man familiar with fair heights | 10 | ····˘/˘··· |
| That poets climb. Upon his peace the tears | 10 | ·/˘······· |
| And troubles of our race deep inroads made, | 10 | ·/˘·/··/·· |
| Yet life was sweet to him; he kept his heart | 10 | ·········· |
| At home. Who saw his wife might well have thought,-- | 10 | ·········· |
| "God loves this man. He chose a wife for him,-- | 10 | ·········· |
| The true one!" O sweet eyes, that seem to live, | 10 | ·········· |
| I know so much of you, tell me the rest! | 10 | ·········· |
| Eyes full of fatherhood and tender care | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| For small, young children. Is a message here | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| That you would fain have sent, but had not time? | 10 | ·········· |
| If such there be, I promise, by long love | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| And perfect friendship, by all trust that comes | 10 | ·/·/˘····· |
| Of understanding, that I will not fail, | 10 | ··˘/˘····· |
| No, nor delay to find it. | 7 | ··˘/··· |
| O, my heart | 3 | ··· |
| Will often pain me as for some strange fault,-- | 10 | ·/˘······· |
| Some grave defect in nature,--when I think | 10 | ··˘/·/˘··· |
| How I, delighted, 'neath those olive-trees, | 10 | ··˘/˘··/˘· |
| Moved to the music of the tideless main, | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| While, with sore weeping, in an island home | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| They laid that much-loved head beneath the sod, | 10 | ·········· |
| And I did not know. | 5 | ····· |
| I stand on the bridge where last we stood | 9 | ········· |
| When young leaves played at their best. | 7 | ······· |
| The children called us from yonder wood, | 10 | ·/˘·˘··/˘· |
| And rock-doves crooned on the nest. | 7 | ······· |
| Ah, yet you call,--in your gladness call,-- | 9 | ······/˘· |
| And I hear your pattering feet; | 8 | ····/˘˘· |
| It does not matter, matter at all, | 9 | ···/˘/˘·· |
| You fatherless children sweet,-- | 7 | ·/˘˘/˘· |
| It does not matter at all to you, | 9 | ···/˘···· |
| Young hearts that pleasure besets; | 7 | ···/˘˘/ |
| The father sleeps, but the world is new, | 9 | ·/˘······ |
| The child of his love forgets. | 7 | ·····˘/ |
| I too, it may be, before they drop, | 9 | ········· |
| The leaves that flicker to-day, | 7 | ···/˘·· |
| Ere bountiful gleams make ripe the crop, | 9 | ·/˘˘····· |
| Shall pass from my place away: | 7 | ·····˘/ |
| Ere yon gray cygnet puts on her white, | 9 | ···/˘···· |
| Or snow lies soft on the wold, | 7 | ······· |
| Shall shut these eyes on the lovely light, | 9 | ······/˘· |
| And leave the story untold. | 7 | ···/˘˘/ |
| Shall I tell it there? Ah, let that be, | 9 | ········· |
| For the warm pulse beats so high; | 7 | ······· |
| To love to-day, and to breathe and see,-- | 9 | ········· |
| To-morrow perhaps to die,-- | 7 | ·/˘˘/·· |
| Leave it with God. But this I have known, | 9 | ········· |
| That sorrow is over soon; | 7 | ·/˘···· |
| Some in dark nights, sore weeping alone, | 9 | ·····/˘˘/ |
| Forget by full of the moon. | 7 | ˘/····· |
| But if all loved, as the few can love, | 10 | ····˘····· |
| This world would seldom be well; | 7 | ···/˘·· |
| And who need wish, if he dwells above, | 9 | ········· |
| For a deep, a long death knell. | 7 | ······· |
| There are four or five, who, passing this place, | 10 | ······/˘·· |
| While they live will name me yet; | 7 | ······· |
| And when I am gone will think on my face, | 10 | ·········· |
| And feel a kind of regret. | 7 | ·····˘/ |
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.