Analysis of Pickthorn Manor
Amy Lowell 1874 (Brookline) – 1925 (Brookline)
How fresh the Dartle's little waves that day!
A steely silver, underlined with blue,
And flashing where the round clouds, blown away,
Let drop the yellow sunshine to gleam through
And tip the edges of the waves with shifts
And spots of whitest fire, hard like gems
Cut from the midnight moon they were, and sharp
As wind through leafless stems.
The Lady Eunice walked between the drifts
Of blooming cherry-trees, and watched the rifts
Of clouds drawn through the river's azure warp.
Her little feet tapped softly down the path.
Her soul was listless; even the morning breeze
Fluttering the trees and strewing a light swath
Of fallen petals on the grass, could please
Her not at all. She brushed a hair aside
With a swift move, and a half-angry frown.
She stopped to pull a daffodil or two,
And held them to her gown
To test the colours; put them at her side,
Then at her breast, then loosened them and tried
Some new arrangement, but it would not do.
A lady in a Manor-house, alone,
Whose husband is in Flanders with the Duke
Of Marlborough and Prince Eugene, she's grown
Too apathetic even to rebuke
Her idleness. What is she on this Earth?
No woman surely, since she neither can
Be wed nor single, must not let her mind
Build thoughts upon a man
Except for hers. Indeed that were no dearth
Were her Lord here, for well she knew his worth,
And when she thought of him her eyes were kind.
Too lately wed to have forgot the wooing.
Too unaccustomed as a bride to feel
Other than strange delight at her wife's doing.
Even at the thought a gentle blush would steal
Over her face, and then her lips would frame
Some little word of loving, and her eyes
Would brim and spill their tears, when all they saw
Was the bright sun, slantwise
Through burgeoning trees, and all the morning's flame
Burning and quivering round her. With quick shame
She shut her heart and bent before the law.
He was a soldier, she was proud of that.
This was his house and she would keep it well.
His honour was in fighting, hers in what
He'd left her here in charge of. Then a spell
Of conscience sent her through the orchard spying
Upon the gardeners. Were their tools about?
Were any branches broken? Had the weeds
Been duly taken out
Under the 'spaliered pears, and were these lying
Nailed snug against the sunny bricks and drying
Their leaves and satisfying all their needs?
She picked a stone up with a little pout,
Stones looked so ill in well-kept flower-borders.
Where should she put it? All the paths about
Were strewn with fair, red gravel by her orders.
No stone could mar their sifted smoothness. So
She hurried to the river. At the edge
She stood a moment charmed by the swift blue
Beyond the river sedge.
She watched it curdling, crinkling, and the snow
Purfled upon its wave-tops. Then, 'Hullo,
My Beauty, gently, or you'll wriggle through.'
The Lady Eunice caught a willow spray
To save herself from tumbling in the shallows
Which rippled to her feet. Then straight away
She peered down stream among the budding sallows.
A youth in leather breeches and a shirt
Of finest broidered lawn lay out upon
An overhanging bole and deftly swayed
A well-hooked fish which shone
In the pale lemon sunshine like a spurt
Of silver, bowed and damascened, and girt
With crimson spots and moons which waned and played.
The fish hung circled for a moment, ringed
And bright; then flung itself out, a thin blade
Of spotted lightning, and its tail was winged
With chipped and sparkled sunshine. And the shade
Broke up and splintered into shafts of light
Wheeling about the fish, who churned the air
And made the fish-line hum, and bent the rod
Almost to snapping. Care
The young man took against the twigs, with slight,
Deft movements he kept fish and line in tight
Obedience to his will with every prod.
He lay there, and the fish hung just beyond.
He seemed uncertain what more he should do.
He drew back, pulled the rod to correspond,
Tossed it and caught it; every time he threw,
He caught it nearer to the point. At last
The fish was near enough to touch. He paused.
Eunice knew well the craft - 'What's got the thing!'
She cried. 'What can have caused -
Where is his net? The moment will be past.
The fish will wriggle free.' She stopped aghast.
He turned and bowed. One arm was in a sling.
The broad, black ribbon she had thought his ba
Scheme | ABABCDXDCCX XEXEFGBGFFB HIHIJKLKJJL MNMNOXPCOOP XQXQMRSRMMS RTRTUVBVUBB ACACWXXHWWX YXYXZ1 2 1 ZZ2 3 B3 B4 XMX4 4 M X |
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Poetic Form | |
Metre | 110110111 010101011 0101011101 110101111 0101010111 0111010111 110111001 111101 0101010101 1101010101 1111010101 0101110101 01110100101 1000101011 1101010111 0111110101 1011001101 111101011 011101 110111101 1101110101 1101011111 0100010101 1101010101 1100010111 101010101 0100111111 1101011101 1111011101 110101 0110011011 0011111111 0111110101 11011101010 101010111 10110110110 10101010111 1001010111 1101110001 1101111111 10111 11001010101 10010010111 1101010101 1101011111 1111011111 111010001 1101011101 11010101010 01010001101 0101010101 110101 1001100110 11010101010 110100111 1101110101 11110111010 1111110101 01111101010 1111110101 1101010101 1101011011 010101 11111001 10111111 1101011101 010101011 11011100001 1101011101 1111010101 010101001 110111101 110010101 011111 001101101 11010101 1101011101 0111010101 0111011011 1101001111 110101001 1101001111 1001011101 0101110101 11101 0111010111 1101110101 010011111001 1110011101 1101011111 111101101 11011100111 1111010111 0111011111 1011011101 111111 1111010111 0111011101 1101111001 0111011111 |
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 4,232 |
Words | 800 |
Sentences | 50 |
Stanzas | 10 |
Stanza Lengths | 11, 11, 11, 11, 11, 11, 11, 11, 11, 1 |
Lines Amount | 100 |
Letters per line (avg) | 34 |
Words per line (avg) | 8 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 340 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 79 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 4:01 min read
- 100 Views
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"Pickthorn Manor" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 29 Apr. 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/2275/pickthorn-manor>.
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