Category Archives: Analysis

The Darkling Thrush

In each of the last two weeks, we’ve been looking at good poems that have nevertheless had some imperfections, and we have examined how we as writers might be more sensitive to such things as we construct our own poems. We will be doing the same thing today with another fine poem. Enjoy the poem below, and then, if you’d like to learn more about the craft of writing poetry, consider the commentary below.

The Darkling Thrush
by Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)

I leant upon a coppice gate,
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter’s dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled vine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.

The land’s sharp features seemed to me
The Century’s corpse outleant,
Its crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind its death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervorless as I.

At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead,
In a full-throated evensong
Of joy illimited.
An ancient thrush, frail, gaunt and small,
With blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew,
And I was unaware.

The meter may feel familiar to you: it is the same meter used by Abraham Lincoln in the poem of his we looked at last week. We may scan it like this:

~ / ~ / ~ / ~ /
~ / ~ / ~ /

Now when writing in this meter, it is quite permissible for the poet to deviate a little, so long as the dominant beat structure is uninjured. For example, one might need to use a word that has two unstressed syllables next to each other, and this can be done so long as we leave the correct number of beats in a line (the technical vocabulary for this is called anapestic substitution, using an anapestic ~ ~ / foot in place of an iambic ~ / foot). Thomas hardy does this with the line “The Century’s corpse outleant,” which scans as ~ / ~ ~ / ~ /. The line still has its 3 beats, which are separated by unstressed syllables.
However, a little later in that stanza, Harding miscounts his beats. The line “And every spirit upon earth” is supposed to have 4 beats (since each line of the poem has been alternating between 3 and 4 beats), but a natural reading of this line (that is, as we would pronounce it in normal speech, in prose, or even in the first line of any poem, before the meter has been established) would be ~ / ~ / ~ ~ ~ /.

What has happened here? Well, when 3 unstressed syllables occur in a row, the one in the middle sometimes takes on a little extra stress. This typically happens when 3 small functions words proceed in a row. But here, the middle syllable in question is the “up” from “upon.” And how do we pronounce “upon?” Do you say upon ( ~ / ) or upon ( / ~ ) ? In normal speech, we say the first; but in this poem, an over-regularization of the meter would suggest the second.

In English, proper word stress helps us to identify meaning: content words get stressed more than function words, and the roots of words tend to get more stress than the prefixes and suffixes. Over-regularization, or reading the poem with an artificially perfect meter instead of a natural pronunciation, can distract us from the meaning by shifting the stresses around. For example, in the line “The bleak twigs overhead,” an over-regular reading (The bleak twigs overhead) will de-emphasize the noun, twigs. Meanwhile, in the line “An ancient thrush, frail, gaunt and small,” the word “frail” get de-emphasized. In such a line, the poet must therefore consider the relative importance of each word, and order them appropriately. Here, the impression upon the reader is of a gaunt and small thrush, instead of a frail and small thrush: swapping the position of the words frail and gaunt would create the other impression.

Finally, over-regularization can totally distort a line: for example, “In a full-throated evensong,” sounds terrible, for we do not naturally stress an “a” before a word. A more natural reading would be “In a full-throated evensong,” scanned ~ ~ / ~ ~ / ~ /. Note that such a reading yields only 3 beats instead of the 4 that the line is supposed to have. It appears that the poet has made a mistake: possibly he was counting syllables instead of beats, or possibly he had his established rhythm sounding so strong in his mind that he mistakenly read the line with a stress on “a,” and so counted 4 beats instead of 3.

I still like this poem; the last stanza really makes an impact on me, stirring both heart and mind. But I note the error here so that when I write, and when you write, we can work to eliminate such mistakes in our own work; for it would be a pity if some prospective reader missed out on a stirring last stanza because they had to slog through too many difficulties before then, and gave up.


A poem by Abraham Lincoln

Last week I posted a poem written by Queen Elizabeth; this week is another post from an historical leader that most people don’t know wrote poetry. The following poem was written by President Abraham Lincoln (before he became president, though: he wrote it 1844 when he passed through his boyhood home while campaigning for Henry Clay. While he said the place was as un-poetical as ever there was, it nevertheless stirred him such to write the following lines:

My Childhood’s Home I See Again
by Abraham Lincoln (1809-1865)

My childhood’s home I see again,
And sadden with the view;
And still, as memory crowds my brain,
There’s pleasure in it too.

O Memory! thou midway world
‘Twixt earth and paradise,
Where things decayed and loved ones lost
In dreamy shadows rise,

And, freed from all that’s earthly vile,
Seem hallowed, pure, and bright,
Like scenes in some enchanted isle
All bathed in liquid light.

As dusky mountains please the eye
When twilight chases day;
As bugle-notes that, passing by,
In distance die away;

As leaving some grand waterfall,
We, lingering, list its roar—
So memory will hallow all
We’ve known, but know no more.

Near twenty years have passed away
Since here I bid farewell
To woods and fields, and scenes of play,
And playmates loved so well.

Where many were, but few remain
Of old familiar things;
But seeing them, to mind again
The lost and absent brings.

The friends I left that parting day,
How changed, as time has sped!
Young childhood grown, strong manhood gray,
And half of all are dead.

I hear the loved survivors tell
How naught from death could save,
Till every sound appears a knell,
And every spot a grave.

I range the fields with pensive tread,
And pace the hollow rooms,
And feel (companion of the dead)
I’m living in the tombs.

Those of you familiar with English meter might recognize this to be written in ballad form: it is in iambic meter (alternating between stressed and unstressed syllables), and alternates between lines of 4 beats and lines of 3 beats.  But even someone totally unfamiliar with English meter will still feel the rhythm of the poem manifest itself as they read. Lincoln no doubt felt it quite loudly as he crafted the poem; and a scan of the poem’s beats will reveal a very regular metrical construction.

But it seems there is at least one line that got forced into the meter, instead of creating it naturally. Ideally, the words in a poem can be read naturally, and the meter presents itself to our ears because the master poet has placed the words in just the right order for a natural reading to generate the poem’s music. But sometimes a writer, who already has the music in mind, can inadvertently superimpose that rhythm upon the normal pronunciation of the words. When this happens, a natural reading of the words will cause a disruption to the meter; but the disruption may be easily missed if the writer is so caught up in the rhythm that they alter the pronunciation or stressing of words without realizing it.

In Lincoln’s poem. the rhythm is a regular ~ / ~ / ~ /, and we get so used to hearing that, we expect each line to continue in the same way. But how would we really read the line “As leaving some grand waterfall,” if we came across it in prose? Well, we tend to emphasize content words (like nouns, verbs, and descriptive adjectives), and de-emphasis function words (like articles, prepositions, and conjunctions). “As leaving some grand waterfall” would probably scan ~ / ~ ~ / / ~ ~ (or ~ / ~ ~ / / ~ /). But in this poem, it comes out instead as “As leaving some grand waterfall” ( ~ / ~ / ~ / ~ /). A little less natural.

As I said last week, this is not to nit-pick on someone else’s work, but just to draw prospective writers’ attentions to the process and production of metrical poetry. We see this here, and it does NOT have to diminish our appreciation for this poem; but it can spur us on to examine our own productions, and consider if there is anything in our own works we may want to improve. In my poetry, do I want to emphasize a word like “some?” Well, some of the time, yes; but only when appropriate (for example, if I want to contrast with “all”).

This lesson is particularly worth noting, as over-regularization of meter was one of the things that prompted people to question whether or not English poetry should be written in meter at all. For they noted that English meter sounded artificial, and impeded the natural emotion of a piece of art–and certainly bad meter can do just that. Had Lincoln reproduced this error 10 or 20 other times in the poem, we would be quite dissatisfied with it, and call it a bad poem. Fortunately, he makes this slip only once, and it is not so noticeable. Now, how noticeable are the mistakes in our own works?

I don’t [yet] have any other poetry by Lincoln on the site, but I do have one about Lincoln, by Walt Whitman.

Meanwhile, if you want to check out some contemporary poetry in English meter (yes some of us still write in English meter, while the rest of the English world is busy with free verse), you can check out some samples here (or better yet, get a whole book on your Amazon Kindle for only 99 cents).

And remember to leave a comment if you find an article on this site helpful to your own writing (or maybe let one of your writer friends know about the site!).

A metrical example from Queen Elizabeth

A poet might strive for perfection when crafting a poem in formal English meter; but it is very easy to miss the mark, and complete a work without recognizing some mistake. Today we’re going to consider a short poem written by Queen Elizabeth I (1533-1603), as an example of a good poem that missed the mark. Now this is not for the purpose of nit-picking, and it is in no way meant to devalue the work (which remains a good poem); but is intended to draw a prospective writer’s attention to the process of crafting a poem, and to some of the decisions that go into the act. (And if you have no interest in writing, well, then simply enjoy the poem.)

On Monsieur’s Departure

I grieve and dare not show my discontent,
I love and yet am forced to seem to hate,
I do, yet dare not say I ever meant,
I seem stark mute but inwardly do prate.
I am and not, I freeze and yet am burned,
Since from myself another self I turned.

My care is like my shadow in the sun,
Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it,
Stands and lies by me, doth what I have done.
His too familiar care doth make me rue it.
No means I find to rid him from my breast,
Till by the end of things it be suppressed.

Some gentler passion slide into my mind,
For I am soft and made of melting snow;
Or be more cruel, love, and be so kind.
Let me float or sink, be high or low.
Or let me live with some more sweet content,
Or die and so forget what love e’er meant.

Those familiar with English meter will have immediately recognized that his was written in iambic pentameter—that is, in lines of alternating stress ( ~ / ~ / ) with 5 stresses in each line. If one is to read the poem aloud, one’s natural speech patterns will produce a rhythm like this throughout most of the poem: ~ / ~ / ~ / ~ / ~ /

There are a couple of deviations from this rhythm—but some of these are not themselves imperfections; for there is a difference between being perfect and being perfectly regular. For example, the line “Let me float or sink…” begins with a stressed syllable instead of an unstressed syllable (the technical term for this is a “clipped foot”); but this in no way interrupts the rhythm or diminishes the poem: since there was a pause at the end of the line immediately preceding this one, the ear accepts the missing off-beat without surprise. Likewise, it is no imperfection to end two lines with “pursue it” and “rue it” (the technical term for this is “feminine rhyme”), since the poet has made sure to rhyme the stressed syllables, and again, the pause at the end of the line supports the minute deviation from regular iambic meter.

The whole line “Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it,” ( / ~ ~ / ~ / ~ / ~ / ~ ) is not in regular meter; but this too is an example of an acceptable deviation. The first word, “follows,” has a natural stress opposite to the regular meter ( / ~ instead of ~ / ), but it is still two syllables with one stress; so the whole line maintains 5 beats.

The mistake comes in the line following. “Stands and lies by me, doth what I have done.” produces 6 beats instead of 5: / ~ / ~ /, / ~ / ~ /. Now, this imperfection does not particularly stand out: at least I did not notice it the first time I read the poem. And it does not particularly bother me that one line in the poem has 6 beats while the rest have 5. But if I were the poet still in the act of writing it, I would work to correct the matter. Which makes me wonder how the error might have come to pass—

When I was in elementary school, the curriculum for poetry was terrible. And one of the faults of the material was that it instructed students to count the syllables in a line. According to that instruction, such lines as the ones above should all have 10 syllables. And indeed, our imperfect line does have exactly 10 syllables. But we are writing in English meter, not Japanese; and in English prosody the syllable count is not in fact what drives the rhythm, but rather the beat count—in this case, 5 beats (stressed syllables) make up each pentameter line.

Now I do not know if Queen Elizabeth made her mistake because she was counting syllables instead of beats; but I do know that some writers today will make mistakes this way. So be on alert when writing, and read your work aloud: listen to how it sounds (and to how it sounds when you read it again a day later, separated from habit of forced rhythm), and mark the beats with your ear. In this way you can be more sure to count the right way, and produce a work of flowing beauty that does not sneak an extra measure into its song.

If you liked the above poem, you can read more poetry from this time period by checking out Sir Phillip Sydney, Edmund Spenser, or Sir Walter Raleigh. Or, if you’re interested in formal poetry being written today, you can check out some samples from my book, Visions–and support an artist by buying the book on Amazon Kindle for only 99 cents!

The Bottle, by Ralph Knevet

The poem below is an example of why formal poetry is not much read today. For reasons connected with both its virtues and its vices, this poem has not aged well: it is, for most of today’s readers, difficult to read—but if you’ve found your way to this site, you may have an advantage over most readers, and find it accessible enough. Give it a try; and then we’ll consider some of the difficulties of this poem (and style of poetry).


The Bottle
by Ralph Knevet

Thou bearst the bottle, I the bag (oh Lord)
Which daily I do carry on my back,
So stuffed with sin, that ready ‘tis to crack:
I have no unfeigned nectar for thy gourd,
Mine eyes will no such precious drink afford:
Yet both my heart, and eyes, are deserts dry,
Even Lybian sands, where serpents crawl and fly.

Yea the two extreme zones took up my heart,
For unto good, as cold as ice, I am:
But unto evil, like an Etna’s flame:
I paralytical seem in each part,
One utterly deprived of strength, and art,
When I should execute my master’s will,
But active am as fire, t’accomplish ill.

I bear the bag like Judas: (Lord) do Thou,
From this unwieldy burden me dismiss,
And this bag empty, which so heavy is:
Then shall my tears into thy bottle flow;
Not only tears, which do from sorrow grow,
But cooler drops, which do from joy distill,
And to the brim, these shall thy bottle fill.


Congratulations to you for making it through this poem; and bonus points if you got the imagery—which is the first difficulty here: for the primary image is no longer familiar to people today. “The Bottle” refers to a Lachrymatory, or tear-bottle, which captures and holds the tears of a mourner. Yes, these things did exist (in fact they still do), and would have been known to the original audience of this poem (though perhaps better-known in ancient times). And even if the reader had not ever used or seen a tear-bottle, they were expected to know the Biblical reference:

“Thou tellest my wanderings, put thou my tears in Thy bottle; are they not in Thy Book?” –Psalm 56:8

So the poet, whose original readers were familiar with both Biblical and classical imagery, would have easily discerned what the poet is saying: the Lord counts my every tear, but alas! I fail to mourn my sin; therefore deliver me from sin, o Lord, and I will both weep for my sin and cry for joy at my deliverance! Now today’s readers, unfamiliar with the Lachrymatory, can still pick this up (for the poet is not opaque); but it is with greater difficulty.

Speaking of original versus modern readers, the two groups tend to have much different tastes in subject matter. In Knevet’s time, religious poetry like this was more popular, for the religious community and the literary community had significantly more overlap than today; and in the last century, the dominant literary institutions have rather discouraged such themes (or at least, have been more given to praise other themes).

But the biggest problem with this poem is actually the syntax: Knevet’s word order is so far from natural speech it makes some of the lines rather difficult (and unpleasant) to read. Even granting that poetic diction allows for greater freedom in word order, Knevet has gone rather beyond the boundaries. His rearrangement of subjects, verbs, objects, and clauses may serve his rhyme, but they fail to serve his meaning (or clarity).

Now this is probably a greater poetic vice today than in Knevet’s time: for just as readers were once more familiar with classical imagery, so also were they once more familiar with classical languages—and in Greek and Latin, word order is much less strict than in English. Readers who were familiar with the freedom of word order in those languages may well have has a higher tolerance for such contravention of English syntax. But as poetic readership moved away from those languages, this tolerance fell; and by the beginning of the free verse era, such tortured word order was one of the significant reasons formal poetry was rejected.

Consider just that last stanza again, compared to natural syntax:


I bear the bag like Judas: (Lord) do Thou,
From this unwieldy burden me dismiss,              Dismiss this unwieldy burden,
And this bag empty, which so heavy is:               And empty this heavy bag,
Then shall my tears into thy bottle flow;             Then my tears shall fill your bottle—
Not only tears, which do from sorrow grow,     Not only tears of sadness,
But cooler drops, which do from joy distill,       But also tears of joy—
And to the brim, these shall thy bottle fill.         These shall fill your bottle to the brim.


Of course the natural syntax is not in meter. The challenge for a formal poet today would be to take the text on the right and re-work it into something metrical that is no less natural, so that it is readable as opposed to decipherable, and so that it can be spoken aloud and understood without having to be carefully repeated two or three times. But if a poet today wrote the text on the left, I would be rather inclined to call it bad poetry—at the very least, I’d have to say that the poet was writing for a very small audience (or for a dead one).

I still like this poem, by the way; for a poem does not have to be faultless to be enjoyable. But the faults ought to be recognized, so that we when we write, we do not make the mistake of throwing out the baby (poetic meter) with the bathwater (tortured syntax).

Miniver Meter

Miniver Cheevy by Edwin Arlington Robinson is written in a curious meter: each stanza consists of three lines of 4 beats followed by a single line of two beats. Now as most poems which run 4 beats in a line do so throughout (or alternate with 3 beat lines), the unusual choice in this poem rather startles the ear. Consider the beginning (better yet, first click on the link for the whole poem, and read that–otherwise the following discussion will spoil it for you):

Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,
.            Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;
He wept that he was ever born,
.            And he had reasons.

The sudden rhyme brings an unexpected and abrupt end to the stanza, at once engaging our attention. It is unfamiliar to us; and yet, it is not unnatural. “And he had reasons” sounds like an interruption in the flow, but it is exactly the type of self-interruption a storyteller would use. Here the narrator is telling us the story of Miniver Cheevy: he sets the tone, and is ready to run with it–but then stops for a moment to give us this important explanation.

Well, so much for the first stanza. But he employs the same metrical abruptness in every stanza, and he surely isn’t interrupting himself in those places. And stanza after stanza, our ear notes the short line, and wonders at it. Why, there’s supposed to be another beat or two there! Why is the poet doing this?

Then we get to the final stanza, and we understand:

Miniver Cheevy, born too late,
.           Scratched his head and kept on thinking;
Miniver coughed, and called it fate,
.            And kept on drinking.

The final line is perfect, and justifies the entire poem. The poet has painted a picture of a man who complains about his mundane life and desires his fantasy of the past–and then drowns himself in alcohol in order to cope with that. Miniver coughs, and calls it cruel fate that he was born into the wrong time period; but we see what he cannot (or will not). And this is made clearer in 2 beats rather than 4, both as a matter of wit, and because the line stands out metrically. For 8 stanzas, our ear has noted this line, a sense of anticipation building up; this is the payoff.

It is often a good idea to write with the end in mind. Here, the poet almost certainly had the end in mind before beginning this poem. An image of a bitter drunk, captured in that last sentence–and then the construction of the entire build-up, both semantically and metrically, to support this line.

In my own writing, I have on several occasions only selected a meter after selecting a particular phrase that I wanted in the poem. This could be the end, or a particularly important image earlier in the poem. But having that particular phrase as a goal became not so much a constraining as a creative force for the rest of the poem. Every word, every phrase, every beat, had purpose.

If you haven’t been writing with the end in mind, I encourage you to give it a try. Whether you are writing to paint a picture, make an argument, or simply to express your own emotion or person, your end result will be both clearer and more powerful than before.