A Fairly Sad Tale
I think that I shall never knowWhy I am thus, and I am so.Around me, other girls inspireIn men the rush and roar of fire,The sweet transparency of glass,The tenderness of April grass,The durability of granite;But me—I don’t know how to plan it.The lads I’ve met in Cupid’s deadlockWere—shall we say?—born out of wedlock.They broke my heart, they stilled my song,And said they had to run along,Explaining, so to sop my tears,First came their parents or careers.But ever does experienceDeny me wisdom, calm, and sense!Though she’s a fool who seeks to captureThe twenty-first fine, careless rapture,I must go on, till ends my rope,Who from my birth was cursed with hope.A heart in half is chaste, archaic;But mine resembles a mosaic—The thing’s become ridiculous!Why am I so? Why am I thus?
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,]
- deadlock n.
- A lock which is not self-latching, but requires a key to throw the bolt forward.
- broke v. i.
- To transact business for another. Brome. [See Broker, and cf. Brook.]
- cursed a.
- Deserving a curse; execrable; hateful; detestable; abominable.
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
A Fairly Sad Tale is in the public domain. This text is taken from Sunset Gun: Poems (Boni & Liveright, 1928), English Wikisource; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Dorothy Parker, A Fairly Sad Tale, in Sunset Gun (1928), text of English Wikisource, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/parker-sunset-gun/a-fairly-sad-tale.html, id L27464.
Form and metre
A Fairly Sad Tale is 24 lines in a single stanza. It is in rhyming couplets: octosyllabic couplets. The metre is iambic tetrameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 90%).
See other poems in octosyllabic couplets, 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.
- 1 AABBCCDDEEFFGGHHIIJJKKLL knowA · soA · inspireB · fireB · glassC · grassC · graniteD · itD · deadlockE · wedlockE · songF · alongF · tearsG · careersG · experienceH · senseH · captureI · raptureI · ropeJ · hopeJ · archaicK · mosaicK · ridiculousL · thusL
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 |
|---|---|---|
| I think that I shall never know | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Why I am thus, and I am so. | 8 | ········ |
| Around me, other girls inspire | 8 | ···/˘·˘/ |
| In men the rush and roar of fire, | 9 | ·······/˘ |
| The sweet transparency of glass, | 8 | ··˘/˘˘·· |
| The tenderness of April grass, | 8 | ·/˘˘·/˘· |
| The durability of granite; | 9 | ·˘˘/˘˘·/˘ |
| But me—I don’t know how to plan it. | 9 | ········· |
| The lads I’ve met in Cupid’s deadlock | 9 | ·····/˘/· |
| Were—shall we say?—born out of wedlock. | 9 | ·······/· |
| They broke my heart, they stilled my song, | 8 | ········ |
| And said they had to run along, | 8 | ······˘/ |
| Explaining, so to sop my tears, | 8 | ˘/˘····· |
| First came their parents or careers. | 8 | ···/˘·˘/ |
| But ever does experience | 8 | ·/˘·˘/˘˘ |
| Deny me wisdom, calm, and sense! | 8 | ˘/·/˘··· |
| Though she’s a fool who seeks to capture | 9 | ·······/˘ |
| The twenty-first fine, careless rapture, | 9 | ·/˘··/˘/˘ |
| I must go on, till ends my rope, | 8 | ········ |
| Who from my birth was cursed with hope. | 8 | ········ |
| A heart in half is chaste, archaic; | 9 | ······˘/˘ |
| But mine resembles a mosaic— | 9 | ··˘/˘·˘/˘ |
| The thing’s become ridiculous! | 8 | ··˘/˘/˘˘ |
| Why am I so? Why am I thus? | 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.