Paradise Lost
What hues the sunlight had, how rich the shadows were,The blue and tangled shadows dropped from the crusted branchesOf the warped apple-trees upon the orchard grass.
How heavenly pure the blue of two smooth eggs that layLight on the rounded mud that lined the thrush's nest:And what a deep delight the spots that speckled them.
And that small tinkling stream that ran from hedge to hedge,Shadowed over by the trees and glinting in the sunbeams,How clear the water was, how flat the beds of sandWith travelling bubbles mirrored, each one a golden worldTo my enchanted eyes. Then earth was new to me.
But now I walk this earth as it were a lumber room,And sometimes live a week, seeing nothing but mere herbs,Mere stones, mere passing birds: nor look at anythingLong enough to feel its conscious calm assault:The strength of it, the word, the royal heart of it.
Childhood will not return; but have I not the willTo strain my turbid mind that soils all outer things,And, open again to all the miracles of light,To see the world with the eyes of a blind man gaining sight?
Words in this poem
- crusted a.
- Incrusted; covered with, or containing, crust; as, old, crusted port wine.
- enchanted a.
- Under the power of enchantment; possessed or exercised by enchanters; as, an enchanted castle.
- childhood n.
- The state of being a child; the time in which persons are children; the condition or time from infancy to puberty. [AS. cildhad; cild child + -had. See Child, and hood.]
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
Paradise Lost is in the public domain. This text is taken from Poems - First Series, Project Gutenberg ebook #37860; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: John Collings Squire, Paradise Lost, in Poems: First Series (1918), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #37860, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/squire-poems/paradise-lost.html, id L23192.
Form and metre
Paradise Lost is 20 lines in 5 stanzas. The metre is iambic hexameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 82%).
See 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.
- 5 --AA will · things · lightA · sightA
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 |
|---|---|---|
| What hues the sunlight had, how rich the shadows were, | 12 | ···/·····/·· |
| The blue and tangled shadows dropped from the crusted branches | 14 | ···/˘/····/˘/˘ |
| Of the warped apple-trees upon the orchard grass. | 12 | ···/˘····/˘· |
| How heavenly pure the blue of two smooth eggs that lay | 12 | ·/˘········· |
| Light on the rounded mud that lined the thrush's nest: | 12 | ···/˘····/˘· |
| And what a deep delight the spots that speckled them. | 12 | ····˘/···/˘· |
| And that small tinkling stream that ran from hedge to hedge, | 12 | ···/˘······· |
| Shadowed over by the trees and glinting in the sunbeams, | 13 | /˘·····/˘··/· |
| How clear the water was, how flat the beds of sand | 12 | ···/˘······· |
| With travelling bubbles mirrored, each one a golden world | 13 | ·/˘/˘/˘···/˘· |
| To my enchanted eyes. Then earth was new to me. | 12 | ··˘/˘······· |
| But now I walk this earth as it were a lumber room, | 13 | ··········/˘· |
| And sometimes live a week, seeing nothing but mere herbs, | 12 | ·/····//˘··· |
| Mere stones, mere passing birds: nor look at anything | 12 | ···/˘····/˘· |
| Long enough to feel its conscious calm assault: | 11 | ·˘/···/˘·˘/ |
| The strength of it, the word, the royal heart of it. | 12 | ·······/˘··· |
| Childhood will not return; but have I not the will | 12 | /···˘/······ |
| To strain my turbid mind that soils all outer things, | 12 | ···/˘····/˘· |
| And, open again to all the miracles of light, | 12 | ·/˘˘/···/˘·· |
| To see the world with the eyes of a blind man gaining sight? | 14 | ···········/˘· |
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.