Analysis of The Pencil Seller
A pencil, sir; a penny -- won't you buy?
I'm cold and wet and tired, a sorry plight;
Don't turn your back, sir; take one just to try;
I haven't made a single sale to-night.
Oh, thank you, sir; but take the pencil too;
I'm not a beggar, I'm a business man.
Pencils I deal in, red and black and blue;
It's hard, but still I do the best I can.
Most days I make enough to pay for bread,
A cup o' coffee, stretching room at night.
One needs so little -- to be warm and fed,
A hole to kennel in -- oh, one's all right . . .
Excuse me, you're a painter, are you not?
I saw you looking at that dealer's show,
The croûtes he has for sale, a shabby lot --
What do I know of Art? What do I know . . .
Well, look! That David Strong so well displayed,
"White Sorcery" it's called, all gossamer,
And pale moon-magic and a dancing maid
(You like the little elfin face of her?) --
That's good; but still, the picture as a whole,
The values, -- Pah! He never painted worse;
Perhaps because his fire was lacking coal,
His cupboard bare, no money in his purse.
Perhaps . . . they say he labored hard and long,
And see now, in the harvest of his fame,
When round his pictures people gape and throng,
A scurvy dealer sells this on his name.
A wretched rag, wrung out of want and woe;
A soulless daub, not David Strong a bit,
Unworthy of his art. . . . How should I know?
How should I know? I'm Strong -- I painted it.
There now, I didn't mean to let that out.
It came in spite of me -- aye, stare and stare.
You think I'm lying, crazy, drunk, no doubt --
Think what you like, it's neither here nor there.
It's hard to tell so terrible a truth,
To gain to glory, yet be such as I.
It's true; that picture's mine, done in my youth,
Up in a garret near the Paris sky.
The child's my daughter; aye, she posed for me.
That's why I come and sit here every night.
The painting's bad, but still -- oh, still I see
Her little face all laughing in the light.
So now you understand. -- I live in fear
Lest one like you should carry it away;
A poor, pot-boiling thing, but oh, how dear!
"Don't let them buy it, pitying God!" I pray!
And hark ye, sir -- sometimes my brain's awhirl.
Some night I'll crash into that window pane
And snatch my picture back, my little girl,
And run and run. . . .
&n bsp;
I 'm talking wild again;
A crab can't run. I'm crippled, withered, lame,
Palsied, as good as dead all down one side.
No warning had I when the evil came:
It struck me down in all my strength and pride.
Triumph was mine, I thrilled with perfect power;
Honor was mine, Fame's laurel touched my brow;
Glory was mine -- within a little hour
I was a god and . . . what you find me now.
My child, that little, laughing girl you see,
She was my nurse for all ten weary years;
Her joy, her hope, her youth she gave for me;
Her very smiles were masks to hide her tears.
And I, my precious art, so rich, so rare,
Lost, lost to me -- what could my heart but break!
Oh, as I lay and wrestled with despair,
I would have killed myself but for her sake. . . .
By luck I had some pictures I could sell,
And so we fought the wolf back from the door;
She painted too, aye, wonderfully well.
We often dreamed of brighter days in store.
And then quite suddenly she seemed to fail;
I saw the shadows darken round her eyes.
So tired she was, so sorrowful, so pale,
And oh, there came a day she could not rise.
The doctor looked at her; he shook his head,
And spoke of wine and grapes and Southern air:
"If you can get her out of this," he said,
"She'll have a fighting chance with proper care."
"With proper care!" When he had gone away,
I sat there, trembling, twitching, dazed with grief.
Under my old and ragged coat she lay,
Our room was bare and cold beyond belief.
"Maybe," I thought, "I still can paint a bit,
Some lilies, landscape, anything at all."
Alas! My brush, I could not steady it.
Down from my fumbling hand I let it fall.
"With proper care" -- how could I give her that,
Half of me dead? . . . I crawled down to the street.
Cowering beside the wall, I held my hat
And begged of every one I chanced to meet.
I got some pennies, bought her milk and bread,
And so I fought to keep the Doom away;
And yet I saw with agony of dread
My dear one sinking, sinking day
Scheme | ABABCDCDEBEB FGFGHIHIJKJKLMLMGNGN OPOPQAQARBRBSTSTJXXXXXMUMUIVIV RXRXPWPW XYXYZ1 Z1 EPEP T2 T2 N3 N3 4 5 4 5 ETET |
---|---|
Poetic Form | |
Metre | 0101010111 11010100101 1111111111 1101010111 1111110101 1101010101 1011010101 1111110111 1111011111 0111010111 1111011101 0111001111 0111010111 1111011101 01111110101 1111111111 1111011101 1100111100 0111000101 1101010110 1111010101 0101110101 01011101101 1101110011 0111110101 0110010111 1111010101 011011111 0101111101 0101110101 0101111111 1111111101 1111011111 1101111101 1111010111 1111110111 1111110001 1111011111 1111011011 1001010101 0111011111 11110111001 011111111 0101110001 111011101 1111110101 0111011111 11111100111 011101111 1111011101 0111011101 0101 11 1110101 0111110101 111111111 1101110101 1111011101 10111110110 1011110111 10110101010 1101011111 1111010111 1111111101 0101011111 0101011101 0111011111 1111111111 1111010101 111111101 1111110111 0111011101 1101110001 1101110101 0111001111 110110101 11011110011 0111011111 0101101111 0111010101 1111011111 1101011101 1101111101 11110010111 1011010111 10111010101 1011111101 11011011 0111111101 11110011111 1101111101 1111111101 10001011111 01110011111 1111010101 0111110101 0111110011 11110101 |
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 4,157 |
Words | 837 |
Sentences | 77 |
Stanzas | 6 |
Stanza Lengths | 12, 20, 30, 8, 12, 16 |
Lines Amount | 98 |
Letters per line (avg) | 32 |
Words per line (avg) | 9 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 515 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 142 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 14, 2023
- 4:18 min read
- 165 Views
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"The Pencil Seller" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 28 Apr. 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/32611/the-pencil-seller>.
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