Analysis of To Walt Whitman In America
Algernon Charles Swinburne 1837 (London) – 1909 (London)
Send but a song oversea for us,
Heart of their hearts who are free,
Heart of their singer, to be for us
More than our singing can be;
Ours, in the tempest at error,
With no light but the twilight of terror;
Send us a song oversea!
Sweet-smelling of pine-leaves and grasses,
And blown as a tree through and through
With the winds of the keen mountain-passes,
And tender as sun-smitten dew;
Sharp-tongued as the winter that shakes
The wastes of your limitless lakes,
Wide-eyed as the sea-line's blue.
O strong-winged soul with prophetic
Lips hot with the bloodheats of song,
With tremor of heartstrings magnetic,
With thoughts as thunders in throng,
With consonant ardours of chords
That pierce men's souls as with swords
And hale them hearing along,
Make us too music, to be with us
As a word from a world's heart warm,
To sail the dark as a sea with us,
Full-sailed, outsinging the storm,
A song to put fire in our ears
Whose burning shall burn up tears,
Whose sign bid battle reform;
A note in the ranks of a clarion,
A word in the wind of cheer,
To consume as with lightning the carrion
That makes time foul for us here;
In the air that our dead things infest
A blast of the breath of the west,
Till east way as west way is clear.
Out of the sun beyond sunset,
From the evening whence morning shall be,
With the rollers in measureless onset,
With the van of the storming sea,
With the world-wide wind, with the breath
That breaks ships driven upon death,
With the passion of all things free,
With the sea-steeds footless and frantic,
White myriads for death to bestride
In the charge of the ruining Atlantic
Where deaths by regiments ride,
With clouds and clamours of waters,
With a long note shriller than slaughter's
On the furrowless fields world-wide,
With terror, with ardour and wonder,
With the soul of the season that wakes
When the weight of a whole year's thunder
In the tidestream of autumn breaks,
Let the flight of the wide-winged word
Come over, come in and be heard,
Take form and fire for our sakes.
For a continent bloodless with travail
Here toils and brawls as it can,
And the web of it who shall unravel
Of all that peer on the plan;
Would fain grow men, but they grow not,
And fain be free, but they know not
One name for freedom and man?
One name, not twain for division;
One thing, not twain, from the birth;
Spirit and substance and vision,
Worth more than worship is worth;
Unbeheld, unadored, undivined,
The cause, the centre, the mind,
The secret and sense of the earth.
Here as a weakling in irons,
Here as a weanling in bands,
As a prey that the stake-net environs,
Our life that we looked for stands;
And the man-child naked and dear,
Democracy, turns on us here
Eyes trembling with tremulous hands
It sees not what season shall bring to it
Sweet fruit of its bitter desire;
Few voices it hears yet sing to it,
Few pulses of hearts reaspire;
Foresees not time, nor forehears
The noises of imminent years,
Earthquake, and thunder, and fire:
When crowned and weaponed and curbless
It shall walk without helm or shield
The bare burnt furrows and herbless
Of war's last flame-stricken field,
Till godlike, equal with time,
It stand in the sun sublime,
In the godhead of man revealed.
Round your people and over them
Light like raiment is drawn,
Close as a garment to cover them
Wrought not of mail nor of lawn;
Here, with hope hardly to wear,
Naked nations and bare
Swim, sink, strike out for the dawn.
Chains are here, and a prison,
Kings, and subjects, and shame;
If the God upon you be arisen,
How should our songs be the same?
How, in confusion of change,
How shall we sing, in a strange
Land, songs praising his name?
God is buried and dead to us,
Even the spirit of earth,
Freedom; so have they said to us,
Some with mocking and mirth,
Some with heartbreak and tears;
And a God without eyes, without ears,
Who shall sing of him, dead in the birth?
The earth-god Freedom, the lonely
Face lightening, the footprint unshod,
Not as one man crucified only
Nor scourged with but one life's rod;
The soul that is substance of nations,
Reincarnate with fresh generations;
The great god Man, which is God.
But in weariest of years and obscurest
Doth it live not at hear
Scheme | ABABCCB DEDEFFE GHGHIIH AJAJKLJ MNMOPPN QBQBRRB GPGSXAS CFCFTTF XUXUVVU MWMWPXW XXYXNOX ZCZBAKC A1 A1 2 2 1 3 4 3 4 5 5 4 M6 M6 7 7 6 AWAWLKW BPB8 YY8 PO |
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Poetic Form | |
Metre | 11010111 1111111 111101111 11101011 100010110 111101110 110101 110111010 01101101 1011011010 01011101 11101011 01111001 1110111 11111010 1110111 11011010 1111001 1100111 1111111 0111001 111101111 10110111 110110111 11101 0111100101 1101111 1111001 0100110100 0100111 10111100100 1111111 0011101101 01101101 11111111 1101011 101011011 1010011 10110101 10111101 11110011 10101111 10111010 111111 00110100010 1111001 1101110 1011111 101111 11011010 101101011 101101110 0011101 10110111 11010011 110101101 1010010101 1101111 0011111010 1111101 11111111 01111111 1111001 11111010 1111101 10010010 1111011 111 0101001 01001101 11010010 110101 1011011010 10111111 00111001 01001111 110011001 1111101111 111110010 110111111 110111 011111 01011001 1010010 110101 11101111 011101 1111101 111011 1100101 0011101 11100101 11111 110101101 1111111 1111011 101001 1111101 1110010 101001 1010111010 11101101 1001011 1111001 111011 11100111 1001011 10111111 111001 11101 001011011 111111001 01110010 1100011 11111010 1111111 011110110 0111010 0111111 1011101 111111 |
Closest metre | Iambic tetrameter |
Characters | 4,178 |
Words | 766 |
Sentences | 13 |
Stanzas | 18 |
Stanza Lengths | 7, 7, 7, 7, 7, 7, 7, 7, 7, 7, 7, 7, 7, 7, 7, 7, 7, 2 |
Lines Amount | 121 |
Letters per line (avg) | 27 |
Words per line (avg) | 6 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 182 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 43 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on May 01, 2023
- 3:52 min read
- 89 Views
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"To Walt Whitman In America" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 1 May 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/1443/to-walt-whitman-in-america>.
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