Analysis of Week-End
Harold Monro 1879 (Brussels) – 1932
I
The train! The twleve o'clock for paradise.
Hurry, or it will try to creep away.
Out in the country every one is wise:
We can be only wise on Saturday.
There you are waiting, little friendly house:
Those are your chimney-stacks with you between
Surrounded by old trees and strolling cows,
Staring through all your windows at the green.
Your homely floor is creaking for our tread;
The smiling tea-pot with contented spout
Thinks of the boiling water, and the bread
Longs for the butter. All their hands are out
To greet us, and the gentle blankets seem
Purring and crooning: 'Lie in us, and dream.'
II
The key will stammer, and the door reply,
The hall wake, yawn, and smile; the torpid stair
Will grumble at our feet, the table cry:
'Fetch my bolongings for me; I am bare.'
A clatter! something in the attic falls,
A ghost has lifted up his robes and fled.
Then silence very slowly lifts his head.
The starling with impatient screech has flown
The chimney, and is watching from the tree.
They thought us gone for ever: mouse alone
Stops in the middle of the floor to see.
Now all you idle things, resume your toil.
Hearth, put your flames on. Sulky kettle, boil.
III
Contented evening; comfortable joys;
The snoozing fire, and all the fields are still:
Tranquil delight, no purpose, and no noise --
Unless the slow wind flowing round the hill.
'Murry' (the kettle) dozes; little mouse
Is rambling prudently about the floor.
There's lovely conversation in this house:
Words become princes that were slaves before.
What a sweet atmosphere for you and me
The people that have been here left behind. . . .
Oh, but I fear it may turn out to be
Built of a dream, erected in the mind:
So if we speak too loud, we may awaken
To find it vanished, and ourselves mistaken.
IV
Lift up the curtain carefully. All the trees
Stand in the dark like drowsy sentinels.
The oak is talkative to-night; he tells
The little bushes crowding at his knees
That formidable, hard, voluminous
History of growth from acord into age.
They titter like school-children; they arouse
Their comrades, who exclaim: ' He is very sage. '
Look how the moon is staring through that cloud,
Laying and lifting idle streaks of light.
O hark! was that the monstrous wind, so loud
And sudden, prowling always through the night?
Let down the shaking curtain. They are queer,
Those foreigners. They and we live so near.
V
Come, come to bed. The shadows move about,
And some one seems to overhear our talk.
The fire is low; the candles flicker out;
The ghosts of former tenants want to walk.
Already they are shuffling through the gloom.
I felt on old man touch my shoulder-blade;
Once he was married here; they love this room,
He and his woman and the child they made.
Dead, dead, they are, yet some familiar sound,
Creeping along the brink of happy life,
Revives their memory from under ground --
The farmer and his troublesome old wife.
Let us be going: as we climb the stairs,
They'll sit down in our warm half-empty chairs.
VI
Morning! Wake up! Awaken! All the boughs
Are rippling on the air across the green.
The youngest birds are singing to the house.
Blood of the world! -- and is the country clean?
Disturb the precinct. Cool it with a shout.
Sing as you trundle down to light the fire.
Turn the encumbering shadows tumbling out,
And fill the chambers with a new desire.
Life is no good, unless the morning brings
White happiness and quick delight of day.
These half-inanamate domestic things
Must all be useful, or must go away.
Coffee, be fragrant. Porridge in my plate,
Increase the vigour to fulfil my fate.
VII
The fresh air moves like water round a boat.
The white clouds wander. Let us wander too.
The whining, wavering plover flap and float.
That crow is flying after that cuckoo.
Look! Look! . . . They're gone. What are the great trees calling?
Just come a little farther, by that edge
Of green, to where the stormy ploughland, falling
Wave upon wave, is lapping to the hedge.
Oh, what a lovely bank! Give me your hand.
Lie down and press your heart against the ground.
Let us both listen till we understand,
Each through the other, every natural sound. . . .
I can't hear anything to-day, can you,
But, far and near: ' Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo! ' ?
VIII
The everlasting grass -- how bright, how cool!
The day has gone too suddenly, too soon.
Scheme | Text too long |
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Poetic Form | |
Metre | 1 010101110 1011111101 10010100111 1111011100 1111010101 1111011101 0101110101 1011110101 11011101101 0101110101 1101010001 1101011111 1110010101 1001010101 1 0111000101 0111010101 11011010101 11111111 0101000101 0111011101 1101010111 0101010111 0100110101 1111110101 1001010111 1111010111 111111101 1 0101010001 01010010111 1001110011 0101110101 1001010101 1101000101 110010011 1011010101 101101101 0101111101 1111111111 1101010001 11111111010 111100001010 1 11010100101 1001110100 0111001111 0101010111 1100010100 10011101011 1101110101 1110111101 1101110111 1001010111 1111010111 010101101 1101010111 1100101111 1 111101101 01111101101 01011010101 0111010111 0101110101 1111111101 1111011111 1011000111 1111110101 1001011101 0111001101 0100110011 1111011101 11101011101 1 1011010101 11001010101 0101110101 1101010101 010111101 11110111010 10111001 01010101010 1111010101 1100010111 1110101 1111011101 1011010011 01011111 1 0111110101 0111011101 01010010101 111101011 11111101110 1101010111 1111010110 1011110101 1101011111 1101110101 111101101 110101001001 111101111 1101111 1 001011111 0111110011 |
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 4,316 |
Words | 773 |
Sentences | 83 |
Stanzas | 8 |
Stanza Lengths | 15, 14, 15, 15, 15, 15, 15, 3 |
Lines Amount | 107 |
Letters per line (avg) | 31 |
Words per line (avg) | 7 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 418 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 98 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 3:51 min read
- 114 Views
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"Week-End" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 28 Apr. 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/16867/week-end>.
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