Analysis of The Crane
Wilfred Wilson Gibson 1878 – 1962
The biggest crane on earth, it lifts
Two hundred ton more easily
Than I can lift my heavy head:
And when it swings, the whole world shifts,
Or so, at least, it seems to me,
As, day and night, adream I lie
Upon my crippled back in bed,
And watch it against the sky.
My mother, hunching in her chair,
Day-long, and stitching trousers there--
At three-and-three the dozen pair . . .
She'd sit all night, and stitch for me,
Her son, if I could only wear . . .
She never lifts her eyes to see
The big crane swinging through the air.
But though she has no time to talk,
She always cleans the window-pane,
That I may see it clear and plain:
And as I watch it move, I walk
Who never walked in all my days . . .
And often, as I dream agaze,
I'm up and out, and it is I
Who swing the crane across the sky.
Right up above the wharf I stand,
And touch a lever with my hand,
To lift a bunch of girders high,
A truck of coal, a field of grain
In sacks, a bundle of big trees,
Or beasts, too frightened in my grip
To wonder at their skiey trip:
And then I let the long arm dip
Without a hitch, without a slip,
To set them safely in the ship
That waits to take them overseas.
My mother little dreams it's I,
Up there, tiny as a fly,
Who stand above the biggest crane,
And swing the ship-loads through the sky;
While she sits, hunching in her chair,
Day-long, and stitching trousers there--
At three-and-three the dozen pair.
And sometimes when it turns me dizzy,
I lie and watch her, ever busy;
And wonder at a lot of things
I never speak to her about:
I wonder why she never sings
Like other people on the stair . . .
And why, whenever she goes out
Upon a windy day, the air
Makes her sad eyes so strangely bright . . .
And if the colour of her hair
Was brown like mine, or always white . . .
And why, when through the noise of feet
Of people passing in the street,
She hears a dog yelp or sheep bleat,
She always starts up in her chair,
And looks before her with strange stare,
Yet seeing nothing anywhere:
Though right before her, through the sky,
The biggest crane goes swinging by.
But it's a lucky day and rare
When she's the time to talk with me . . .
Though, only yesterday, when night
Shut out, at last, the crane from sight . . .
She, in her bed, and thinking I
Was sleeping -- though I watch the sky,
At times, till it is morning light,
And ships are waiting to unload--
I heard her murmur drowsily:
"The pit-pattering of feet,
All night, along the moonlit road . . .
A yelp, a whistle, and a bleat . . .
The bracken's deep and soft and dry . . .
And safe and snug, and no one near . . .
The little burn sings low and sweet,
The little burn sings shrill and clear . . .
And loud all night the cock-grouse talks . . .
There's naught in heaven or earth to fear . . .
The pit-pat-pattering of feet . . .
A yelp, a whistle, and a bleat . . ."
And then she started up in bead:
I felt her staring, as she said:
"I wonder if he ever hears
The pit-pat-pattering of sheep,
Or smells the broken bracke stalks . . .
While she is lying sound asleep
Beside him . . . after all these years --
Just ninteen years, this very night --
Remembering? . . . and now, his son,
A man . . . and never stood upright!"
And then I heard a sound of tears;
But dared not speak, or let her know
I'd caught a single whisper, though
I wondered long what she had done
That she should hear the pattering feet:
And when those queer words in the night
Had fretted me half-dead with fright,
And set my throbbing head abeat . . .
Out of the darkness, suddenly,
The crane's long arm swung over me,
Among the stars, high overhead . . .
And then it dipped, and clutched my bed:
And I had not a breath to cry,
Before it swung me through the sky,
Above the sleeping city high,
Where blinding stars went blazing by . . .
My mother, hunching in her chair,
Day-long, and stitching trousers there,
At three-and-three the dozen pair,
With quiet eyes and smooth white hair . . .
You'd little think a yelp or bleat
Could start her; or that she was weeping
So sorely, when she thought me sleeping.
She never tells me why she fears
The pit-pat-pattering of feet
All night along the moonlight road . . .
Or what's the wrong that she has done . . .
I wonder if 't would bring her tears,
Scheme | abcabdcd EEEbebe fggfxadd hhdgijjjjji ddgdeEE bbklkelememnnceeedd ebmmddmobnoCdpnp qpNCxcxrqrsmtm uvvtnmmcbbccdddd EEEecwwsNotu |
---|---|
Poetic Form | |
Metre | 01011111 11011100 11111101 01110111 11111111 1101111 01110101 0110101 1101001 11010101 11010101 11110111 01111101 11010111 01110101 11111111 1110101 11111101 01111111 11010111 0101111 11010111 11010101 11010111 01010111 11011101 01110111 01010111 11110011 1101111 01110111 01010101 11110001 11111101 11010111 1110101 11010101 01011101 1111001 11010101 11010101 001111110 110101010 01010111 11011001 11011101 11010101 01010111 01010101 10111101 0101101 1111111 01110111 11010001 11011111 1111001 01010111 1101010 11010101 01011101 11010101 11011111 1101011 11110111 10010101 11011101 11111101 01110101 110101 01111 1101011 01010001 0110101 01010111 01011101 01011101 01110111 110101111 011111 01010001 01110101 11010111 11011101 011111 1101011 11110101 01110111 1111101 01000111 01010101 01110111 11111101 11010101 11011111 1111011 01111001 11011111 0111011 11010100 01111101 01011101 01110111 01110111 01111101 01010101 11011101 1101001 11010101 11010101 11010111 11010111 110111110 110111110 11011111 011111 1101011 11011111 110111101 |
Closest metre | Iambic tetrameter |
Characters | 4,219 |
Words | 780 |
Sentences | 91 |
Stanzas | 10 |
Stanza Lengths | 8, 7, 8, 11, 7, 19, 16, 14, 16, 12 |
Lines Amount | 118 |
Letters per line (avg) | 27 |
Words per line (avg) | 7 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 313 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 86 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 3:56 min read
- 101 Views
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"The Crane" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 10 Jun 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/38567/the-crane>.
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