Analysis of The Paper Windmill
Amy Lowell 1874 (Brookline) – 1925 (Brookline)
The little boy pressed his face against the window-pane and looked out
at the bright sunshiny morning. The cobble-stones of the square
glistened like mica. In the trees, a breeze danced and pranced,
and shook drops of sunlight like falling golden coins into the brown water
of the canal. Down stream slowly drifted a long string of galliots
piled with crimson cheeses. The little boy thought they looked as if
they were roc's eggs, blocks of big ruby eggs. He said, 'Oh!' with delight,
and pressed against the window with all his might.
The golden cock on the top of the `Stadhuis' gleamed. His beak was open
like a pair of scissors and a narrow piece of blue sky was wedged in it.
'Cock-a-doodle-do,' cried the little boy. 'Can't you hear me
through the window, Gold Cocky? Cock-a-doodle-do! You should crow
when you see the eggs of your cousin, the great roc.' But the golden cock
stood stock still, with his fine tail blowing in the wind.
He could not understand the little boy, for he said 'Cocorico'
when he said anything. But he was hung in the air to swing, not to sing.
His eyes glittered to the bright West wind, and the crimson cheeses
drifted away down the canal.
It was very dull there in the big room. Outside in the square, the wind
was playing tag with some fallen leaves. A man passed, with a dogcart
beside him full of smart, new milkcans. They rattled out a gay tune:
'Tiddity-tum-ti-ti. Have some milk for your tea. Cream for your coffee
to drink to-night, thick, and smooth, and sweet, and white,'
and the man's sabots beat an accompaniment: 'Plop! trop! milk for your tea.
Plop! trop! drink it to-night.' It was very pleasant out there,
but it was lonely here in the big room. The little boy gulped at a tear.
It was queer how dull all his toys were. They were so still.
Nothing was still in the square. If he took his eyes away a moment
it had changed. The milkman had disappeared round the corner,
there was only an old woman with a basket of green stuff on her head,
picking her way over the shiny stones. But the wind pulled the leaves
in the basket this way and that, and displayed them to beautiful advantage.
The sun patted them condescendingly on their flat surfaces, and they seemed
sprinkled with silver. The little boy sighed as he looked at his disordered
toys on the floor. They were motionless, and their colours were dull.
The dark wainscoting absorbed the sun. There was none left for toys.
The square was quite empty now. Only the wind ran round and round it,
spinning. Away over in the corner where a street opened into the square,
the wind had stopped. Stopped running, that is, for it never
stopped spinning. It whirred, and whirled, and gyrated, and turned.
It burned like a great coloured sun. It hummed, and buzzed, and sparked,
and darted. There were flashes of blue, and long smearing lines of saffron,
and quick jabs of green. And over it all was a sheen like a myriad
cut diamonds. Round and round it went, the huge wind-wheel,
and the little boy's head reeled with watching it. The whole square
was filled with its rays, blazing and leaping round after one another,
faster and faster. The little boy could not speak, he could only gaze,
staring in amaze.
The wind-wheel was coming down the square. Nearer and nearer it came,
a great disk of spinning flame. It was opposite the window now,
and the little boy could see it plainly, but it was something more
than the wind which he saw. A man was carrying a huge fan-shaped frame
on his shoulder, and stuck in it were many little painted paper windmills,
each one scurrying round in the breeze. They were bright and beautiful,
and the sight was one to please anybody, and how much more a little boy
who had only stupid, motionless toys to enjoy.
The little boy clapped his hands, and his eyes danced and whizzed,
for the circling windmills made him dizzy. Closer and closer
came the windmill man, and held up his big fan to the little boy
in the window of the Ambassador's house. Only a pane of glass
between the boy and the windmills. They slid round before his eyes
in rapidly revolving splendour. There were wheels and wheels of colours -
big, little, thick, thin - all one clear, perfect spin. The windmill vendor
dipped and raised them again, and the little boy's face was glued
to the window-pane. Oh! What a glorious, wonderful plaything!
Rings and rings of windy colour always moving! How had any one ever preferred
those other toys which never stirred. 'Nursie, come quickly. Look!
I want a windmill. See! It is never still. You will buy me one, won't you?
I want that silver one, wi
Scheme | ABACDXEE FGHXIJIKDX JAXHEHBB XXCXDXXLMD GBCXXFXXBCDD NXXNDMOO XCODDDCXKLXXX |
---|---|
Poetic Form | |
Metre | 0101111010101011 10110100101101 1011000101101 01111110101010110 100111101001111 111010010111111 1011111101111101 01010101111 0101101101111110 101110001011111101 10101101011111 101011010101111 11101111001110101 111111110001 1110101011111 11110111100111111 111010111001010 10011001 11101100111100101 110111101011101 011111111101011 111111111111110 11111010101 0011110100111111 11111111101011 111101001101011101 1111111101011 10110011111101010 111011011010 111011101010111101 1001100101101101 0010110100111100010 011011111100011 101100101111111010 11011010001101 0110101111111 0111101100111011 1001100010101100101 0111110111110 110110101001 11101101110101 01010101101101110 011110101110110100 110101110111 00101111101011 11111100101101010 10010010111111101 10001 0111101011001011 0111101111000101 0010111110111101 10111101110001111 111001010101010101 1110010011010100 0011111100001110101 1110101001101 0101111011101 101001111010010 101101111110101 00101001001100111 01010011110111 010001011010111 110111110110110 10110100101111 101011101001001 1011101110111011001 1101110111101 11011111011111111 1111011 |
Closest metre | Iambic octameter |
Characters | 4,520 |
Words | 835 |
Sentences | 75 |
Stanzas | 7 |
Stanza Lengths | 8, 10, 8, 10, 12, 8, 13 |
Lines Amount | 69 |
Letters per line (avg) | 52 |
Words per line (avg) | 12 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 511 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 119 |
Font size:
Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 4:11 min read
- 100 Views
Citation
Use the citation below to add this poem analysis to your bibliography:
Style:MLAChicagoAPA
"The Paper Windmill" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 3 May 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/2331/the-paper-windmill>.
Discuss this Amy Lowell poem analysis with the community:
Report Comment
We're doing our best to make sure our content is useful, accurate and safe.
If by any chance you spot an inappropriate comment while navigating through our website please use this form to let us know, and we'll take care of it shortly.
Attachment
You need to be logged in to favorite.
Log In