To Thee
Draw close the lattice and the door!Shut out the very stars above!No other eyes than mine shall poreUpon this thrilling tale of love.As, since the book was open last,Along its dear and sacred textNo other eyes than thine have passed--Be mine the eyes that trace it next!
Oh! very nobly is it wrought,--This web of love's divinest light,--But not to feed my soul with thought,Hang I upon the book to-night;I read it only for thy sake,To every page my lips I press--The very leaves appear to makeA silken rustle like thy dress.
And so, as each blest page I turn,I seem, with many a secret thrill,To touch a soft white hand, and burnTo clasp and kiss it at my will.Oh! if a fancy be so sweet,These shadowy fingers touching mine--How wildly would my pulses beat,If they COULD feel the beat of thine!
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,]
- thrilling a.
- Causing a thrill; causing tremulous excitement; deeply moving; as, a thrilling romance.
- nobly adv.
- Of noble extraction; as, nobly born or descended.
- rustle v. i.
- To make a quick succession of small sounds, like the rubbing or moving of silk cloth or dry leaves. [AS. hristlan to rustle; or cf. Sw. rusta to stir, make a riot, or E. rush, v.]
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
To Thee is in the public domain. This text is taken from Poems of Henry Timrod; with Memoir, Project Gutenberg ebook #845; 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 Timrod, To Thee, in Poems (1860–1867), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #845, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/timrod-poems/to-thee.html, id L10506.
Form and metre
To Thee is 24 lines in 3 stanzas of 8 lines each. Every stanza rhymes ABABCDCD. The metre is iambic tetrameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 94%). 94% of its stressed syllables fall where the metre puts the beat. The lines average 8.2 syllables. 1 line ends on an unstressed syllable, a feminine ending. 17% 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 ABABCDCD doorA · aboveB · poreA · loveB · lastC · textD · passedC · nextD
- 2 ABABCDCD wroughtA · lightB · thoughtA · nightB · sakeC · pressD · makeC · dressD
- 3 ABABCDCD turnA · thrillB · burnA · willB · sweetC · mineD · beatC · thineD
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 |
|---|---|---|
| Draw close the lattice and the door! | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| Shut out the very stars above! | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| No other eyes than mine shall pore | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| Upon this thrilling tale of love. | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| As, since the book was open last, | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Along its dear and sacred text | 9 | ˘/···/˘˘· |
| No other eyes than thine have passed-- | 9 | ·/˘·····˘ |
| Be mine the eyes that trace it next! | 8 | ········ |
| Oh! very nobly is it wrought,-- | 8 | ·/˘/˘··· |
| This web of love's divinest light,-- | 8 | ····˘/˘· |
| But not to feed my soul with thought, | 8 | ········ |
| Hang I upon the book to-night; | 8 | ········ |
| I read it only for thy sake, | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| To every page my lips I press-- | 9 | ·/˘˘····· |
| The very leaves appear to make | 8 | ·/˘·˘/·· |
| A silken rustle like thy dress. | 8 | ·/˘/˘··· |
| And so, as each blest page I turn, | 8 | ········ |
| I seem, with many a secret thrill, | 9 | ···/˘·/˘· |
| To touch a soft white hand, and burn | 8 | ········ |
| To clasp and kiss it at my will. | 8 | ········ |
| Oh! if a fancy be so sweet, | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| These shadowy fingers touching mine-- | 9 | ·/˘˘/˘/˘· |
| How wildly would my pulses beat, | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| If they COULD feel the beat of thine! | 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.