The Dead Christ
O Death, why is it I cannot portrayThy form and features? Do I stand too near thee?Or dost thou hold my hand, and draw me back,As being thy disciple, not thy master?Let him who knows not what old age is likeHave patience till it comes, and he will know.I once had skill to fashion Life and DeathAnd Sleep, which is the counterfeit of Death;And I remember what Giovanni StrozziWrote underneath my statue of the NightIn San Lorenzo, ah, so long ago!
Grateful to me is sleep! More grateful nowThan it was then; for all my friends are dead;And she is dead, the noblest of them all.I saw her face, when the great sculptor Death,Whom men should call Divine, had at a blowStricken her into marble; and I kissedHer cold white hand. What was it held me backFrom kissing her fair forehead, and those lips,Those dead, dumb lips? Grateful to me is sleep!
GIORGIO.Good-evening, or good-morning, for I know notWhich of the two it is.
How came you in?
GIORGIO.Why, by the door, as all men do.
AscanioMust have forgotten to bolt it.
GIORGIO.Probably.Am I a spirit, or so like a spirit,That I could slip through bolted door or window?As I was passing down the street, I sawA glimmer of light, and heard the well-known chinkOf chisel upon marble. So I entered,To see what keeps you from your bed so late.
MICHAEL ANGELO, coming forward with the lamp.You have been revelling with your boon companions,Giorgio Vasari, and you come to meAt an untimely hour.
GIORGIO.The Pope hath sent me.His Holiness desires to see againThe drawing you once showed him of the domeOf the Basilica.
We will look for it.
GIORGIO.What is the marble group that glimmers thereBehind you?
Nothing, and yet everything,--As one may take it. It is my own tomb,That I am building.
GIORGIO.Do not hide it from me.By our long friendship and the love I bear you,Refuse me not!
MICHAEL ANGELO, letting fall the lamp.Life hath become to meAn empty theatre,--its lights extinguished,The music silent, and the actors gone;And I alone sit musing on the scenesThat once have been. I am so old that DeathOft plucks me by the cloak, to come with himAnd some day, like this lamp, shall I fall down,And my last spark of life will be extinguished.Ah me! ah me! what darkness of despair!So near to death, and yet so far from God!
Words in this poem
- wrote v. i.
- To root with the snout. See 1st Root. [OE. wroten. See 1st Root.]
- 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.]
- stricken p. p.
- Struck; smitten; wounded; as, the stricken deer.
- boon n.
- A prayer or petition. [OE. bone, boin, a petition, fr. Icel. b; akin to Sw. & Dan. b, AS. b, and perh. to E. ban; but influenced by F. bon good, fr. L. bonus. Ban, Bounty.]
- theatre n.
- An edifice in which dramatic performances or spectacles are exhibited for the amusement of spectators; anciently uncovered, except the stage, but in modern times roofed. [F. thé\'83tre, L. theatrum, Gr. dhya to meditate, think. Cf. Theory.]
- 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 Dead Christ is in the public domain. This text is taken from The Complete Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Project Gutenberg ebook #1365; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, The Dead Christ, in Michael Angelo: A Fragment (1883), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #1365, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/longfellow-michael-angelo/the-dead-christ.html, id L19267.
Form and metre
The Dead Christ is 67 lines in 14 stanzas.
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 -----ABB--A portray · thee · back · master · like · knowA · deathB · deathB · strozzi · night · agoA
- 12 A-A everythingA · tomb · buildingA
- 14 --A-----A-- lamp · me · extinguishedA · gone · scenes · death · him · down · extinguishedA · despair · god
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. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| O Death, why is it I cannot portray | 10 | ······˘/˘/ |
| Thy form and features? Do I stand too near thee? | 11 | ···/˘······ |
| Or dost thou hold my hand, and draw me back, | 10 | ·········· |
| As being thy disciple, not thy master? | 11 | ·/˘·˘/˘··/˘ |
| Let him who knows not what old age is like | 10 | ·········· |
| Have patience till it comes, and he will know. | 10 | ·/˘······· |
| I once had skill to fashion Life and Death | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| And Sleep, which is the counterfeit of Death; | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| And I remember what Giovanni Strozzi | 12 | ··˘/˘··˘/˘·· |
| Wrote underneath my statue of the Night | 10 | ··˘/·/···· |
| In San Lorenzo, ah, so long ago! | 10 | ··˘/˘···˘/ |
| Grateful to me is sleep! More grateful now | 10 | /˘·····/˘· |
| Than it was then; for all my friends are dead; | 10 | ·········· |
| And she is dead, the noblest of them all. | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| I saw her face, when the great sculptor Death, | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| Whom men should call Divine, had at a blow | 10 | ····˘/···· |
| Stricken her into marble; and I kissed | 10 | /˘···/˘··· |
| Her cold white hand. What was it held me back | 10 | ·········· |
| From kissing her fair forehead, and those lips, | 10 | ·/˘··/˘··· |
| Those dead, dumb lips? Grateful to me is sleep! | 10 | ····/˘···· |
| GIORGIO. | 3 | /˘˘ |
| Good-evening, or good-morning, for I know not | 11 | ·/˘··/˘···· |
| Which of the two it is. | 6 | ······ |
| How came you in? | 4 | ···· |
| GIORGIO. | 3 | /˘˘ |
| Why, by the door, as all men do. | 8 | ········ |
| Ascanio | 3 | ··· |
| Must have forgotten to bolt it. | 8 | ··˘/˘··· |
| GIORGIO. | 3 | /˘˘ |
| Probably. | 3 | /˘˘ |
| Am I a spirit, or so like a spirit, | 11 | ···/˘····/˘ |
| That I could slip through bolted door or window? | 11 | ·····/˘··/˘ |
| As I was passing down the street, I saw | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| A glimmer of light, and heard the well-known chink | 11 | ·/˘········ |
| Of chisel upon marble. So I entered, | 11 | ·/˘··/˘··/˘ |
| To see what keeps you from your bed so late. | 10 | ·········· |
| MICHAEL ANGELO, coming forward with the lamp. | 12 | /˘/˘·/˘/˘··· |
| You have been revelling with your boon companions, | 12 | ···˘/˘···˘/˘ |
| Giorgio Vasari, and you come to me | 10 | /˘········ |
| At an untimely hour. | 7 | ··˘/˘/˘ |
| GIORGIO. | 3 | /˘˘ |
| The Pope hath sent me. | 5 | ····· |
| His Holiness desires to see again | 10 | ·/˘˘˘/··˘/ |
| The drawing you once showed him of the dome | 10 | ·/˘······· |
| Of the Basilica. | 6 | ··˘/˘˘ |
| We will look for it. | 5 | ····· |
| GIORGIO. | 3 | /˘˘ |
| What is the marble group that glimmers there | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| Behind you? | 3 | ··· |
| Nothing, and yet everything,-- | 7 | /˘··/˘· |
| As one may take it. It is my own tomb, | 10 | ·········· |
| That I am building. | 5 | ···/˘ |
| GIORGIO. | 3 | /˘˘ |
| Do not hide it from me. | 6 | ······ |
| By our long friendship and the love I bear you, | 11 | ·/·/˘······ |
| Refuse me not! | 4 | ˘/·· |
| MICHAEL ANGELO, letting fall the lamp. | 10 | /˘/˘·/˘··· |
| Life hath become to me | 6 | ··˘/·· |
| An empty theatre,--its lights extinguished, | 11 | ·/˘/˘˘··˘/˘ |
| The music silent, and the actors gone; | 10 | ·/˘/˘··/˘· |
| And I alone sit musing on the scenes | 10 | ··˘/·/˘··· |
| That once have been. I am so old that Death | 10 | ·········· |
| Oft plucks me by the cloak, to come with him | 10 | ·········· |
| And some day, like this lamp, shall I fall down, | 10 | ·········· |
| And my last spark of life will be extinguished. | 11 | ········˘/˘ |
| Ah me! ah me! what darkness of despair! | 10 | ·····/˘·˘/ |
| So near to death, and yet so far from God! | 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.