Analysis of The Weakling
Arthur Henry Adams 1872 (Lawrence) – 1936 (Sydney, New South Wales)
I AM a weakling. God, who made
The still, strong man, made also me.
The God who could the tiger plan,
In his lithe splendour unafraid—
A thing of flame and poetry—
That Puissance made of me—a Man!
The One who reared His vast design—
Star, atom, system, germ, and soul—
Could fashion forth this tremulous
And paltry little heart of mine!
The God who could conceive the Whole,
Himself blasphemed in building thus.
When I dare look the glass within,
The ‘Mene Tekel’ mark I see.
God made this slinking, stunted thing,
This narrowed face, this futile chin,
Prisoned a soul deliberately
’Neath these blunt nerves unanswering?
I see my fellows strong and proud,
Lustful and splendid with desires,
Secure and strenuous within,
God opulently them endowed,
And lit in them immortal fires;
And left me scarcely strength to sin.
I watch them triumph by, afar,
Crashing through life with crude disdain.
Theirs is a universe so wide,
So keen and rich the colours are
That reach each fine responsive brain.
They are the bridegrooms, Life the bride!
They carry in their veins their fate;
Foredoomed are they to victory.
Their broad brows are a diadem
Of mastery; they but await
Their long determined destiny,
For at their birth Life laurelled them.
They have their chance to win, to fall—
The fighting chance, the deathless hope;
Their fate they venture to assail;
They chafe for ever at their thrall;
They dare with their despair to cope,
Superbly strive, superbly fail.
But I starve with a stunted brain:
My vision is so mean and scant
That every hue it blurs and dulls.
God branded me—this brow of Cain!—
Put in me this heart hesitant,
And lamed me with a limping pulse.
I watch them striding on; they flout
Death even; then my path I see:
The narrow path—the narrow curse.
Ah, wonder, if I dare to doubt
If sin of mine prescribed for me
This mean and niggard universe?
The end that is upon my face
And in my wizened soul I wait—
The end that I shall count for good.
Yet they who pass me in the race
Left me to falter to my fate:
They did not slay me when they should.
But yet He found ‘that it was good’.
Ah! surely in the soul of God
For me some kindly pity is?
Or else I wonder how He could
Raise me—a soul—up from the sod,
Lift me from Nothingness—to this!
Yet—thin weak lips and woman-chin—
Some unknown debt to me is paid,
Some sacrifice I may not see.
I expiate some other’s sin.
I am God’s weakling. He who made
The still, strong man, made also me.
Scheme | aBcabc defdef gbhgbh ijgijg klmklm nbonbo pqrpqr lxflxx sbtsbt unvunv vwxvwx gabgaB |
---|---|
Poetic Form | |
Metre | 11010111 01111101 01110101 011101 01110100 1111101 01111101 11010101 11011100 01010111 01110101 0110101 11110101 011111 1111101 11011101 100101000 11111 11110101 100101010 01010001 11101 010101010 01110111 11110101 10111101 1101011 1101011 11110101 1101101 11001111 1111100 1111010 11001101 11010100 1111111 11111111 0101011 11110101 11110111 11110111 10011001 11110101 11011101 110011101 11011111 10111100 01110101 11110111 11011111 01010101 11011111 11110111 1101010 01110111 00110111 01111111 11111001 11110111 11111111 11111111 11000111 11110101 11110111 11011101 11110011 11110101 10111111 1101111 1101101 11110111 01111101 |
Closest metre | Iambic tetrameter |
Characters | 2,864 |
Words | 453 |
Sentences | 30 |
Stanzas | 12 |
Stanza Lengths | 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6 |
Lines Amount | 72 |
Letters per line (avg) | 26 |
Words per line (avg) | 6 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 158 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 38 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 2:16 min read
- 37 Views
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"The Weakling" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 29 Apr. 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/3873/the-weakling>.
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