Analysis of Four Riddles
Lewis Carroll 1832 (Daresbury) – 1898 (Guildford)
There was an ancient City, stricken down
With a strange frenzy, and for many a day
They paced from morn to eve the crowded town,
And danced the night away.
I asked the cause: the aged man grew sad:
They pointed to a building gray and tall,
And hoarsely answered "Step inside, my lad,
And then you'll see it all."
Yet what are all such gaieties to me
Whose thoughts are full of indices and surds?
x*x + 7x + 53 = 11/3
But something whispered "It will soon be done:
Bands cannot always play, nor ladies smile:
Endure with patience the distasteful fun
For just a little while!"
A change came o'er my Vision - it was night:
We clove a pathway through a frantic throng:
The steeds, wild-plunging, filled us with affright:
The chariots whirled along.
Within a marble hall a river ran -
A living tide, half muslin and half cloth:
And here one mourned a broken wreath or fan,
Yet swallowed down her wrath;
And here one offered to a thirsty fair
(His words half-drowned amid those thunders tuneful)
Some frozen viand (there were many there),
A tooth-ache in each spoonful.
There comes a happy pause, for human strength
Will not endure to dance without cessation;
And every one must reach the point at length
Of absolute prostration.
At such a moment ladies learn to give,
To partners who would urge them over-much,
A flat and yet decided negative -
Photographers love such.
There comes a welcome summons - hope revives,
And fading eyes grow bright, and pulses quicken:
Incessant pop the corks, and busy knives
Dispense the tongue and chicken.
Flushed with new life, the crowd flows back again:
And all is tangled talk and mazy motion -
Much like a waving field of golden grain,
Or a tempestuous ocean.
And thus they give the time, that Nature meant
For peaceful sleep and meditative snores,
To ceaseless din and mindless merriment
And waste of shoes and floors.
And One (we name him not) that flies the flowers,
That dreads the dances, and that shuns the salads,
They doom to pass in solitude the hours,
Writing acrostic-ballads.
How late it grows! The hour is surely past
That should have warned us with its double knock?
The twilight wanes, and morning comes at last -
"Oh, Uncle, what's o'clock?"
The Uncle gravely nods, and wisely winks.
It MAY mean much, but how is one to know?
He opens his mouth - yet out of it, methinks,
No words of wisdom flow.
Empress of Art, for thee I twine
This wreath with all too slender skill.
Forgive my Muse each halting line,
And for the deed accept the will!
O day of tears! Whence comes this spectre grim,
Parting, like Death's cold river, souls that love?
Is not he bound to thee, as thou to him,
By vows, unwhispered here, yet heard above?
And still it lives, that keen and heavenward flame,
Lives in his eye, and trembles in his tone:
And these wild words of fury but proclaim
A heart that beats for thee, for thee alone!
But all is lost: that mighty mind o'erthrown,
Like sweet bells jangled, piteous sight to see!
"Doubt that the stars are fire," so runs his moan,
"Doubt Truth herself, but not my love for thee!"
A sadder vision yet: thine aged sire
Shaming his hoary locks with treacherous wile!
And dost thou now doubt Truth to be a liar?
And wilt thou die, that hast forgot to smile?
Nay, get thee hence! Leave all thy winsome ways
And the faint fragrance of thy scattered flowers:
In holy silence wait the appointed days,
And weep away the leaden-footed hours.
The air is bright with hues of light
And rich with laughter and with singing:
Young hearts beat high in ecstasy,
And banners wave, and bells are ringing:
But silence falls with fading day,
And there's an end to mirth and play.
Ah, well-a-day
Rest your old bones, ye wrinkled crones!
The kettle sings, the firelight dances.
Deep be it quaffed, the magic draught
That fills the soul with golden fancies!
For Youth and Pleasance will not stay,
And ye are withered, worn, and gray.
Ah, well-a-day!
O fair cold face! O form of grace,
For human passion madly yearning!
O weary air of dumb despair,
From marble won, to marble turning!
"Leave us not thus!" we fondly pray.
"We cannot let thee pass away!"
Ah, well-a-day!
My First is singular at best:
Scheme | abab cdcd ef f ghgh ijbj kxkx lxlx mgmg nono fgfg xgxg xfbf ffff pqpq frfr stst uvuv wxwx aexe yhyh ffff izezbbB ffxfbbB fzlzbbB x |
---|---|
Poetic Form | Tetractys (22%) |
Metre | 1111010101 10110011001 1111110101 010101 110101111 1101010101 011010111 011111 11111111 111111001 111 1101011111 110111101 0111000101 110101 01110110111 110110101 011101111 0100101 0101010101 0101110011 0111010111 110101 0111010101 11110111010 110110101 011011 1101011101 1101110110 01001110111 110010 1101010111 1101111101 010110100 010011 1101010101 01011101010 0101010101 0101010 1111011101 0111010110 1101011101 1010010 0111011101 110101001 11010101 011101 01111111010 11010011010 1111010010 10110 11110101101 1111111101 011010111 110101 0101010101 1111111111 1101111111 111101 10111111 11111101 01111101 01010101 1111111101 1011110111 1111111111 11111101 011111011 101101011 0111110101 0111111101 111111011 111101111 11011101111 1101111111 0101011110 10110111001 01111111010 0111110111 1111111101 00110111010 01010100101 01010101010 01111111 011100110 11110100 010101110 11011101 01111101 1101 11111101 01010110 11110101 110111010 1101111 01110101 1101 11111111 110101010 11011101 110111010 11111101 11011101 1101 11110011 |
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 4,078 |
Words | 762 |
Sentences | 47 |
Stanzas | 26 |
Stanza Lengths | 4, 4, 2, 1, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 7, 7, 7, 1 |
Lines Amount | 105 |
Letters per line (avg) | 31 |
Words per line (avg) | 7 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 123 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 29 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on April 11, 2023
- 3:48 min read
- 195 Views
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"Four Riddles" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 29 Apr. 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/25766/four-riddles>.
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