Common Graces
Is nature in thee too spiritless,Ignoble, impotent, and dead,To prize her love and lovelinessThe more for being thy daily bread?And art thou one of that vile crewWhich see no splendour in the sun,Praising alone the good that’s new,Or over, or not yet begun?And has it dawn’d on thy dull witsThat love warms many as soft a nest,That, though swathed round with benefits,Thou art not singularly blest?And fail thy thanks for gifts divine,The common food of many a heart,Because they are not only thine?Beware lest in the end thou artCast for thy pride forth from the fold,Too good to feel the common graceOf blissful myriads who beholdFor evermore the Father’s face.
Words in this poem
- loveliness n.
- The state or quality of being lovely. [From Lovely.]
- splendour n.
- Great brightness; brilliant luster; brilliancy; as, the splendor ot the sun. B. Jonson. [L. fr. splendere to shine: cf. F. splendeur.]
- singularly adv.
- In a singular manner; in a manner, or to a degree, not common to others; extraordinarily; as, to be singularly exact in one's statements; singularly considerate of others.
- beware v. t.
- To avoid; to take care of; to have a care for.
- blissful a.
- Full of, characterized by, or causing, joy and felicity; happy in the highest degree.
- evermore adv.
- During eternity; always; forever; for an indefinite period; at all times; -- often used substantively with for.
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
Common Graces is in the public domain. This text is taken from The Angel in the House, Project Gutenberg ebook #4099; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Coventry Patmore, Common Graces, in The Angel in the House (1854–1862), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #4099, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/patmore-angel/common-graces.html, id L12258.
Form and metre
Common Graces is 20 lines in a single stanza. It rhymes ABABCDCDEFEFGHGHIJIJ. The metre is iambic tetrameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 85%). 90% of its stressed syllables fall where the metre puts the beat. The lines average 8.1 syllables. 3 lines end on an unstressed syllable, a feminine ending. 30% 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.
- 1 ABABCDCDEFEFGHGHIJIJ spiritlessA · deadB · lovelinessA · breadB · crewC · sunD · newC · begunD · witsE · nestF · benefitsE · blestF · divineG · heartH · thineG · artH · foldI · graceJ · beholdI · faceJ
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 |
|---|---|---|
| Is nature in thee too spiritless, | 9 | ·/˘···/˘˘ |
| Ignoble, impotent, and dead, | 8 | ˘/˘/˘˘·· |
| To prize her love and loveliness | 8 | ·····/˘˘ |
| The more for being thy daily bread? | 8 | ···/·/˘· |
| And art thou one of that vile crew | 8 | ········ |
| Which see no splendour in the sun, | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| Praising alone the good that’s new, | 8 | /˘˘/···· |
| Or over, or not yet begun? | 8 | ······˘/ |
| And has it dawn’d on thy dull wits | 8 | ········ |
| That love warms many as soft a nest, | 8 | ···/···· |
| That, though swathed round with benefits, | 8 | ·····/˘˘ |
| Thou art not singularly blest? | 8 | ···/˘˘˘· |
| And fail thy thanks for gifts divine, | 8 | ······˘/ |
| The common food of many a heart, | 8 | ·/˘··/·· |
| Because they are not only thine? | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Beware lest in the end thou art | 8 | ˘/······ |
| Cast for thy pride forth from the fold, | 8 | ········ |
| Too good to feel the common grace | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Of blissful myriads who behold | 8 | ·/˘/˘·˘/ |
| For evermore the Father’s face. | 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.