The Perfect Marriage
I hate this yoke; for the world's sake here put it on:Knowing 'twill weigh as much on you till life is gone.Knowing you love your freedom dear, as I love mine--Knowing that love unchained has been our life's great wine:Our one great wine (yet spent too soon, and serving none;Of the two cups free love at last the deadly one).
We grant our meetings will be tame, not honey-sweetNo longer turning to the tryst with flying feet.We know the toil that now must come will spoil the bloomAnd tenderness of passion's touch, and in its roomWill come tame habit, deadly calm, sorrow and gloom.Oh, how the battle scars the best who enter life!Each soldier comes out blind or lame from the black strife.Mad or diseased or damned of soul the best may come--It matters not how merrily now rolls the drum,The fife shrills high, the horn sings loud, till no steps lag--And all adore that silken flame, Desire's great flag.
We will build strong our tiny fort, strong as we can--Holding one inner room beyond the sword of man.Love is too wide, it seems to-day, to hide it there.It seems to flood the fields of corn, and gild the air--It seems to breathe from every brook, from flowers to sigh--It seems a cataract poured down from the great sky;It seems a tenderness so vast no bush but showsIts haunting and transfiguring light where wonder glows.It wraps us in a silken snare by shadowy streams,And wildering sweet and stung with joy your white soul seemsA flame, a flame, conquering day, conquering night,Brought from our God, a holy thing, a mad delight.But love, when all things beat it down, leaves the wide air,The heavens are gray, and men turn wolves, lean with despair.Ah, when we need love most, and weep, when all is dark,Love is a pinch of ashes gray, with one live spark--Yet on the hope to keep alive that treasure strangeHangs all earth's struggle, strife and scorn, and desperate change.
Love?... we will scarcely love our babes full many a time--Knowing their souls and ours too well, and all our grime--And there beside our holy hearth we'll hide our eyes--Lest we should flash what seems disdain without disguise.Yet there shall be no wavering there in that deep trial--And no false fire or stranger hand or traitor vile--We'll fight the gloom and fight the world with strong sword-play,Entrenched within our block-house small, ever at bay--As fellow-warriors, underpaid, wounded and wild,True to their battered flag, their faith still undefiled!
Words in this poem
- tryst v. i.
- To mutually agree to meet at a certain place.
- strife n.
- The act of striving; earnest endeavor. [OF. estrif. See Strive.]
- damned a.
- Sentenced to punishment in a future state; condemned; consigned to perdition.
- adore v. t.
- To worship with profound reverence; to pay divine honors to; to honor as deity or as divine. [OE. aouren, anouren, adoren, OF. aorer, adorer, F. adorer, fr. L. adorare; ad + orare to speak, pray, os, oris, mouth. In OE. confused with honor, the French pr]
- wildering n.
- A plant growing in a state of nature; especially, one which has run wild, or escaped from cultivation.
- desperate a.
- Without hope; given to despair; hopeless. [L. desperatus, p. p. of desperare. See Despair, and cf. Desperado.]
- grime n.
- Foul matter; dirt, rubbed in; sullying blackness, deeply ingrained. [Cf. Dan. grim, griim, lampblack, soot, grime, Icel. gr mask, sort of hood, OD. grijmsel, grimsel, soot, smut, and E. grimace.]
- 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,]
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
The Perfect Marriage is in the public domain. This text is taken from The Congo, and Other Poems, Project Gutenberg ebook #1021; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Vachel Lindsay, The Perfect Marriage, in The Congo and Other Poems (1914), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #1021, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/lindsay-congo/the-perfect-marriage.html, id L00957.
Form and metre
The Perfect Marriage is 45 lines in 4 verse paragraphs. It is in rhyming couplets, 93% of the lines. The metre is iambic hexameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 86%). 87% of its stressed syllables fall where the metre puts the beat. The lines average 11.8 syllables. 1 line ends on an unstressed syllable, a feminine ending. 13% of the lines run on without a stop at the line end.
See other poems in rhyming couplets, other poems in iambic hexameter.
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 AABBCC onA · goneA · mineB · wineB · noneC · oneC
- 2 AABBBCCDDEE sweetA · feetA · bloomB · roomB · gloomB · lifeC · strifeC · comeD · drumD · lagE · flagE
- 3 AABBCCDDEEFFBBGGHH canA · manA · thereB · airB · sighC · skyC · showsD · glowsD · streamsE · seemsE · nightF · delightF · airB · despairB · darkG · sparkG · strangeH · changeH
- 4 AABBCCDDEE timeA · grimeA · eyesB · disguiseB · trialC · vileC · playD · bayD · wildE · undefiledE
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 hexameter. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| I hate this yoke; for the world's sake here put it on: | 12 | ············ |
| Knowing 'twill weigh as much on you till life is gone. | 12 | /˘·········· |
| Knowing you love your freedom dear, as I love mine-- | 12 | /˘···/˘····· |
| Knowing that love unchained has been our life's great wine: | 12 | /······/˘··· |
| Our one great wine (yet spent too soon, and serving none; | 12 | /········/˘· |
| Of the two cups free love at last the deadly one). | 12 | ·········/˘· |
| We grant our meetings will be tame, not honey-sweet | 12 | ··//˘····/˘· |
| No longer turning to the tryst with flying feet. | 12 | ·/˘/˘····/˘· |
| We know the toil that now must come will spoil the bloom | 12 | ············ |
| And tenderness of passion's touch, and in its room | 12 | ·/˘˘·/˘····· |
| Will come tame habit, deadly calm, sorrow and gloom. | 12 | ···/˘/˘·/˘·· |
| Oh, how the battle scars the best who enter life! | 12 | ···/˘····/˘· |
| Each soldier comes out blind or lame from the black strife. | 12 | ·/˘········· |
| Mad or diseased or damned of soul the best may come-- | 12 | ··˘/········ |
| It matters not how merrily now rolls the drum, | 12 | ·/˘··/˘˘···· |
| The fife shrills high, the horn sings loud, till no steps lag-- | 12 | ············ |
| And all adore that silken flame, Desire's great flag. | 12 | ··˘/·/˘·˘/·· |
| We will build strong our tiny fort, strong as we can-- | 12 | ····//˘····· |
| Holding one inner room beyond the sword of man. | 12 | /˘·/˘······· |
| Love is too wide, it seems to-day, to hide it there. | 12 | ············ |
| It seems to flood the fields of corn, and gild the air-- | 12 | ············ |
| It seems to breathe from every brook, from flowers to sigh-- | 12 | ·····/˘··/·· |
| It seems a cataract poured down from the great sky; | 12 | ···/˘˘······ |
| It seems a tenderness so vast no bush but shows | 12 | ···/˘˘······ |
| Its haunting and transfiguring light where wonder glows. | 13 | ·/˘·······/˘· |
| It wraps us in a silken snare by shadowy streams, | 12 | ·····/˘··/˘· |
| And wildering sweet and stung with joy your white soul seems | 12 | ·/˘········· |
| A flame, a flame, conquering day, conquering night, | 12 | ····/˘˘·/˘˘· |
| Brought from our God, a holy thing, a mad delight. | 12 | ··/··/˘···˘/ |
| But love, when all things beat it down, leaves the wide air, | 12 | ············ |
| The heavens are gray, and men turn wolves, lean with despair. | 13 | ·/˘········˘/ |
| Ah, when we need love most, and weep, when all is dark, | 12 | ············ |
| Love is a pinch of ashes gray, with one live spark-- | 12 | ·····/˘····· |
| Yet on the hope to keep alive that treasure strange | 12 | ······˘/·/˘· |
| Hangs all earth's struggle, strife and scorn, and desperate change. | 12 | ···/˘····/˘· |
| Love?... we will scarcely love our babes full many a time-- | 12 | ···/˘·/··/·· |
| Knowing their souls and ours too well, and all our grime-- | 12 | /···/····/˘· |
| And there beside our holy hearth we'll hide our eyes-- | 12 | ··˘///˘···/· |
| Lest we should flash what seems disdain without disguise. | 12 | ······˘/··˘/ |
| Yet there shall be no wavering there in that deep trial-- | 13 | ·····/˘····/˘ |
| And no false fire or stranger hand or traitor vile-- | 12 | ···/·/˘··/˘· |
| We'll fight the gloom and fight the world with strong sword-play, | 12 | ············ |
| Entrenched within our block-house small, ever at bay-- | 12 | ˘/··/···/˘·· |
| As fellow-warriors, underpaid, wounded and wild, | 12 | ·/˘/˘/˘//˘·· |
| True to their battered flag, their faith still undefiled! | 12 | ···/˘······· |
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.