Tea at the Palaz of Hoon
Not less because in purple I descendedThe western day through what you calledThe loneliest air, not less was I myself.
What was the ointment sprinkled on my beard?What were the hymns that buzzed beside my ears?What was the sea whose tide swept through me there?
Out of my mind the golden ointment rained,And my ears made the blowing hymns they heard.I was myself the compass of that sea:
I was the world in which I walked, and what I sawOr heard or felt came not but from myself;And there I found myself more truly and more strange.
About this text
Tea at the Palaz of Hoon is in the public domain. This text is taken from Harmonium, Project Gutenberg ebook #78743; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Wallace Stevens, Tea at the Palaz of Hoon, in Harmonium (1923), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #78743, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/stevens-harmonium/tea-at-the-palaz-of-hoon.html, id L01049.
Form and metre
Tea at the Palaz of Hoon is 12 lines in 4 verse paragraphs. It is unrhymed, as far as the pronouncing dictionary can tell. The metre is iambic pentameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 88%). 100% of its stressed syllables fall where the metre puts the beat. The lines average 10.4 syllables. 2 lines end on an unstressed syllable, a feminine ending. 25% of the lines run on without a stop at the line end.
See other poems in iambic pentameter, other poems in blank verse.
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.
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 pentameter. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| Not less because in purple I descended | 11 | ·····/˘·˘/˘ |
| The western day through what you called | 9 | ·/˘·····˘ |
| The loneliest air, not less was I myself. | 11 | ··········/ |
| What was the ointment sprinkled on my beard? | 10 | ···/˘/˘··· |
| What were the hymns that buzzed beside my ears? | 10 | ······˘/·· |
| What was the sea whose tide swept through me there? | 10 | ·········· |
| Out of my mind the golden ointment rained, | 10 | ·····/˘/˘· |
| And my ears made the blowing hymns they heard. | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| I was myself the compass of that sea: | 10 | ···/·/˘··· |
| I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw | 12 | ············ |
| Or heard or felt came not but from myself; | 10 | ·········/ |
| And there I found myself more truly and more strange. | 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.