Analysis of Dead Selves
James Whitcomb Riley 1849 (Greenfield) – 1916 (Indianapolis)
How many of my selves are dead?
The ghosts of many haunt me: Lo,
The baby in the tiny bed
With rockers on, is blanketed
And sleeping in the long ago;
And so I ask, with shaking head,
How many of my selves are dead?
A little face with drowsy eyes
And lisping lips comes mistily
From out the faded past, and tries
The prayers a mother breathed with sighs
Of anxious care in teaching me;
But face and form and prayers have fled--
How many of my selves are dead?
The little naked feet that slipped
In truant paths, and led the way
Through dead'ning pasture-lands, and tripped
O'er tangled poison-vines, and dipped
In streams forbidden--where are they?
In vain I listen for their tread--
How many of my selves are dead?
The awkward boy the teacher caught
Inditing letters filled with love,
Who was compelled, for all he fought,
To read aloud each tender thought
Of 'Sugar Lump' and 'Turtle Dove.'
I wonder where he hides his head--
How many of my selves are dead?
The earnest features of a youth
With manly fringe on lip and chin,
With eager tongue to tell the truth,
To offer love and life, forsooth,
So brave was he to woo and win;
A prouder man was never wed--
How many of my selves are dead?
The great, strong hands so all-inclined
To welcome toil, or smooth the care
From mother-brows, or quick to find
A leisure-scrap of any kind,
To toss the baby in the air,
Or clap at babbling things it said--
How many of my selves are dead?
The pact of brawn and scheming brain--
Conspiring in the plots of wealth,
Still delving, till the lengthened chain,
Unwindlassed in the mines of gain,
Recoils with dregs of ruined health
And pain and poverty instead--
How many of my selves are dead?
The faltering step, the faded hair--
Head, heart and soul, all echoing
With maundering fancies that declare
That life and love were never there,
Nor ever joy in anything,
Nor wounded heart that ever bled--
How many of my selves are dead?
So many of my selves are dead,
That, bending here above the brink
Of my last grave, with dizzy head,
I find my spirit comforted,
For all the idle things I think:
It can but be a peaceful bed,
Since all my other selves are dead.
Scheme | AbacbaA dbddxaA efeefaA xghhgaA ijiijaA klkklaA mnmmnaA lolloaA apacpaa |
---|---|
Poetic Form | |
Metre | 11011111 01110111 01000101 11011100 01000101 01111101 11011111 01011101 01111 11010101 01010111 11010101 11010111 11011111 01010111 01010101 11110101 101010101 01100111 01110111 11011111 01010101 110111 11011111 11011101 11010101 11011111 11011111 01010101 11011101 11011101 1101011 11111101 01011101 11011111 01111101 11011101 11011111 01011101 11010001 111100111 11011111 01110101 01000111 11010101 100111 01111101 01010001 11011111 010010101 11011100 110010101 11010101 1101010 11011101 11011111 11011111 11010101 11111101 11110100 11010111 11110101 11110111 |
Closest metre | Iambic tetrameter |
Characters | 2,091 |
Words | 403 |
Sentences | 13 |
Stanzas | 9 |
Stanza Lengths | 7, 7, 7, 7, 7, 7, 7, 7, 7 |
Lines Amount | 63 |
Letters per line (avg) | 26 |
Words per line (avg) | 6 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 185 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 44 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 2:01 min read
- 71 Views
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"Dead Selves" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 28 Apr. 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/20860/dead-selves>.
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