Journeys Through Bookland Volume Vii Part 1

Journeys Through Bookland.

Vol. 7.

by Charles H. Sylvester.

THE DAFFODILS

_By_ WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd,-- A host of golden daffodils Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the Milky Way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I, at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they Outdid the sparkling waves in glee; A poet could not but be gay In such a jocund company; I gazed--and gazed--but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought.

For oft, when on my couch I lie, In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A HOST OF GOLDEN DAFFODILS]

When we look at this little poem we see at a glance that the stanzas are all the same length, that the rhyme scheme is _ababcc_ (see "To My Infant Son," Vol. VI), and that the indentation at the beginning of the lines corresponds with the rhymes. This poem, then, is perfectly regular in form.

There are other things, however, which go to make up perfect structure in a poem. First and foremost, the words are so arranged that the accented syllables in any given line come at regular intervals. Take, for instance, the first two lines of this poem.

Each line contains eight syllables. If you number these syllables 1, 2, 1, 2, 1, 2, 1, 2, you will see that it is the second one each time that bears the accent, thus:

I wan'dered lone'ly as' a cloud'

That floats' on high' o'er vales' and hills'.

Now, if you read the four remaining lines of the stanza you will see that in each one of these the second syllable bears the accent, until you come to the last line, where in the word _fluttering_, which, by the way, you p.r.o.nounce _flutt'ring_, the accent is on the first syllable. If the poet did not now and then change the accent a little it would become tedious and monotonous.

It is a very simple matter, you see, to separate every line of poetry into groups of syllables, and in every group to place one accented syllable and one or more syllables that are not accented.

Such a group is called a _foot_. Thus in each of the first two lines in this poem there are four _feet_. Each _foot_ contains an accented and an unaccented syllable.

If you examine _To the Fringed Gentian_, _To a Mouse_, and _To a Mountain Daisy_, the three poems which follow this, you will see the same structure, except that in _To a Mouse_ and in _To A Mountain Daisy_ there are some short lines and some double rhymes, making the last foot a little different in character from the others.

When a line of poetry is composed of two-syllable feet in which the second syllable bears the accent we call that meter _iambic_. It is the prevalent foot in English poetry, and if you examine the different poems in these volumes you will be surprised to find out how many of them are written substantially on the plan of _The Daffodils_.

In naming the meter of a poem two things are considered: First the _character_ of the feet, and second, the _number_ of feet. In this poem the feet are iambic and there are four of them, consequently we name the meter of this poem _iambic tetrameter_. Whenever you hear those words you think of a poem whose meter is exactly like that of _The Daffodils_.

These words seem long and hard to remember. It may help you to remember them if you think that the word _iam'bic_ contains an iambic foot.

In naming the meter we use the Greek numerals--_mono_ (one), _di_ (two), _tri_ (three), _tetra_ (four), _penta_ (five), _hexa_ (six), _hepta_ (seven), and _octa_ (eight), and add to them the word _meter_, thus: _Mo-nom'e-ter_, a line containing one foot, _dim'e-ter_, _trim'e-ter_, _te-tram'e-ter_, _pen-tam'e-ter_, _hex-am'e-ter_, _hep-tam'e-ter_, _and oc-tam'e-ter_.

TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN

_By_ WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

Thou blossom, bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue, That openest when the quiet light Succeeds the keen and frosty night;

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Thou comest not when violets lean O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, Or columbines, in purple dressed, Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.

Thou waitest late, and com'st alone, When woods are bare and birds are flown, And frosts and shortening days portend The aged Year is near his end.

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye Look through its fringes to the sky, Blue--blue--as if that sky let fall A flower from its cerulean wall.

I would that thus, when I shall see The hour of death draw near to me, Hope, blossoming within my heart, May look to heaven as I depart.

TO A MOUSE

ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOW, NOVEMBER, 1785

_By_ ROBERT BURNS

Wee, sleekit,[5-1] cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie!

Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle![5-2]

I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi' murdering pattle![5-3]

I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion, An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!

A daimen-icker[6-4] in a thrave[6-5]

'S a sma' request: I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave[6-6]

And never miss't!

[Ill.u.s.tration: THOU NEED NA START AWA]

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!

Its silly wa's the win's are strewin'!

An' naething, now, to big a new ane, O' foggage[7-7] green!

An' bleak December's winds ensuin', Baith snell[7-8] and keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, And weary winter comin' fast, And cozie, here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till crash! the cruel coulter[7-9] past Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!

Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald,[7-10]

To thole[7-11] the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch[7-12] cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,[7-13]

In proving foresight may be vain; The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men, Gang aft a-gley,[7-14]