Analysis of A Girl at her Devotions. By Newton
SHE was just risen from her bended knee,
But yet peace seem'd not with her piety;
For there was paleness upon her young cheek,
And thoughts upon the lips which never speak,
But wring the heart that at the last they break.
Alas! how much of misery may be read
In that wan forehead, and that bow'd down head:--
Her eye is on a picture, woe that ever
Love should thus struggle with a vain endeavour
Against itself: it is a common tale,
And ever will be while earth soils prevail
Over earth's happiness; it tells she strove
With silent, secret, unrequited love.
It matters not its history; love has wings
Like lightning, swift and fatal, and it springs
Like a wild flower where it is least expected,
Existing whether cherish'd or rejected;
Living with only but to be content,
Hopeless, for love is its own element,--
Requiring nothing so that it may be
The martyr of its fond fidelity.
A mystery art thou, thou mighty one!
We speak thy name in beauty, yet we shun
To own thee, Love, a guest; the poet's songs
Are sweetest when their voice to thee belongs,
And hope, sweet opiate, tenderness, delight,
Are terms which are thy own peculiar right;
Yet all deny their master,--who will own
His breast thy footstool, and his heart thy throne?
'Tis strange to think if we could fling aside
The masque and mantle that love wears from pride,
How much would be, we now so little guess,
Deep in each heart's undream'd, unsought recess.
The careless smile, like a gay banner borne,
The laugh of merriment, the lip of scorn,--
And for a cloak what is there that can be
So difficult to pierce as gaiety?
Too dazzling to be scann'd, the haughty brow
Seems to hide something it would not avow;
But rainbow words, light laugh, and thoughtless jest,
These are the bars, the curtain to the breast,
That shuns a scrutiny: and she, whose form
Now bends in grief beneath the bosom's storm,
Has hidden well her wound,--now none are nigh
To mock with curious or with careless eye,
(For love seeks sympathy, a chilling yes,
Strikes at the root of its best happiness,
And mockery is worm-wood), she may dwell
On feelings which that picture may not tell.
Scheme | AABBXCCDDEEXX FFXXXXAAGGHHIIJJ KKLLMMACNNOOPPQQLXRR |
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Poetic Form | |
Metre | 1111010101 1111110100 111101011 0101011101 1101110111 01111100111 0111001111 01110101110 11110101010 0101110101 0101111101 1011001111 110100101 11011100111 1101010011 101101111010 01010101010 1011011110 1011111100 01001011111 0101110100 0100111101 1111010111 1111010101 1101111101 01110010001 1111110101 1101110111 111101111 1111111101 0101011111 1111111101 101101101 0101101101 01110111 0101111111 11001111 11001110101 1111011101 111110101 1101010101 1101000111 110101011 1101011111 11110011101 1111000101 1101111100 0100111111 1101110111 |
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 2,134 |
Words | 419 |
Sentences | 9 |
Stanzas | 3 |
Stanza Lengths | 13, 16, 20 |
Lines Amount | 49 |
Letters per line (avg) | 34 |
Words per line (avg) | 8 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 551 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 128 |
About this poem
This poem was written in response to to a painting and published in 1824 in The Troubadour and Other Poems as part of a series entitled 'A Catalogue of Pictures'
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Submitted by Madeleine Quinn on March 11, 2024
Modified by Madeleine Quinn on March 11, 2024
- 2:08 min read
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"A Girl at her Devotions. By Newton" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 26 May 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/182858/a-girl-at-her-devotions.-by-newton>.
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