Analysis of An Inventor
Augusta Davies Webster 1837 (Poole, Dorset) – 1894
I thought this time 'twas done at last,
the workings perfected, the life in it;
and there's the flaw again, the petty flaw,
the fretting small impossibility
that has to be made possible.
To work!
so many more months lost on a wrong tack;
and months and months may so be lost again,
who knows? until they swell a tale of years
counted by failures. No time to sit down
with folded arms to moan for the spent toil,
for on, on, glide the envious treacherous hours
that bring at last the night when none can work;
and I'll not die with my work unfulfilled.
It must perform my thought, it must awake,
this soulless whirring thing of springs and wheels,
and be a power among us. Aye, but how?
There it stands facing me, compact, precise,
the nice presentment of my long design,
and what is it? an accurate mockery,
and not my creature. Where's my secret hid,
the little easy secret which, once found,
will shew so palpable that the pleased world
shall presently believe it always knew?
Where is my secret? Oh, my aching brain!
Good God, have all the anxious ponderings,
all the laborious strain of hand and head,
all the night watches, all the stolen days
from fruitfuller tasks, all I have borne and done,
brought me no nearer solving?
Stolen days;
yes, from the little ones and grave pale wife
who should have every hour of mine made coin
to buy them sunshine. Stolen; and they lack all
save the bare needs which only paupers lack:
stolen; and cheerlessly the mother sits
over her dismal blinding stitchery,
and no quick smile of welcome parts her lips,
seeing me come; and quiet at their play
the children crowd, cooped in the unlovely home,
and envy tattered urchins out of doors
their merry life and playground of the streets.
Oh, if it were but my one self to spend!
but to doom them too with me! Never a thought
dawns first into the world but is a curse
on the rash finder; part of heaven's fire
filched to bestow on men, and for your pay
the vulture at your heart.
What should one choose?
or is there choice? A madness comes on you,
whose name is revelation: who has power
to check the passion of it, who in the world?
A revelation, yes; 'tis but a name
for knowledge ... and there perishes free-will,
for every man is slave of what he knows;
it is the soul of him, could you quench that
you leave the mere mechanic animal--
a sentient creature, true, and reasoning,
(because the clockwork in it's made for that),
but, like my creature there, its purport lacked,
so but its own abortive counterfeit.
We have our several purports; some to pace
the accustomed roads and foot down rampant weeds,
bearing mute custom smoothly on her course;
some difficultly to force readier paths,
or hew out passes through the wilderness;
and some belike to find the snuggest place,
and purr beside the fire. Each of his kind;
but can you change your kind? the lion caged
is still a lion, pipes us no lark's trills;
drive forth the useful brood hen from the yard,
she'll never learn the falcon's soar and swoop.
We must abye our natures; if they fit
too crossly to our hap the worse for us,
but who would pray (say such a prayer could serve)
"Let me become some other, not myself"?
And yet, and yet--Oh, why am I assigned
to this long maiming battle? Why to me
this blasting gift, this lightning of the gods
scorching the hand that wields it? why to me?
A lonely man, or dandled in the lap
of comfortable fortune, might with joy
hug the strange serpent blessing; to the one
it has no tooth, for gilded hands make gold
of all they touch, the other ...... is alone,
and has the right to suffer. Not for them
is doubt or dread; but I--Oh little ones
whose unsuspecting eyes pierce me with smiles!
Oh sad and brooding wife whose silent hopes
are all rebukes to mine!
Come, think it out;
traitor to them or traitor to the world;
is that the choice? Why then, they are my own,
given in my hand, looking to me for all,
and, for my destined present to the world,
being what it is, some one some fortunate day
will find it, or achieve it; if the world wait...
well, it has waited. Yet 'twere pitiful
that still and still, while to a thousand souls
life's irrecoverable swift to-day
becomes the futile yesterday, the world
go beggared of a birthright unaware,
and, (as if one should slake his thirst with blood
pricked from his own red v
Scheme | XAXBC DEXFXXXDX XXXXGBXXHIXFXJKL JXXMEXNXOXXX XXXNOX XINHXXXPCLPXAQXXXRQSXFXXARXX SBXBXXKXTXXXXG XHTMHOXCXOHNXB |
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Poetic Form | |
Metre | 11111111 0100100101 0101010101 010100100 11111100 11 1101111011 0101111101 1101110111 1011011111 1101111011 1111010010010 1111011111 011111101 1101111101 1101011101 01010011111 1111011001 0101011101 01111100100 0111011101 0101010111 1111001011 110001111 1111011101 11110101 10010011101 1011010101 111111101 1111010 101 1101010111 111100101111 1111100111 1011110101 10010101 10010101 0111110101 1011010111 010110011 0101010111 110101101 1110111111 11111111001 1101011101 10110111010 1101110111 010111 1111 1111010111 1110101110 11010111001 001011101 11001111 11001111111 1101111111 1101010100 011010100 010101111 111101111 111101010 1110101111 00101011101 1011010101 11000111001 1111010100 01111011 01010101111 1111110101 1101011111 1101011101 110101101 1111010111 1111010111 1111110111 110111011 0101111101 1111010111 1101110101 1001111111 010111001 1100010111 1011010101 1111110111 1111010101 0101110111 1111111101 101011111 1101011101 110111 1111 1011110101 1101111111 10011101111 0111010101 101111111001 11110111011 1111011100 1101110101 11111 010101001 1110101 0111111111 111111 |
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 4,318 |
Words | 799 |
Sentences | 39 |
Stanzas | 8 |
Stanza Lengths | 5, 9, 16, 12, 6, 28, 14, 14 |
Lines Amount | 104 |
Letters per line (avg) | 32 |
Words per line (avg) | 8 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 418 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 100 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 4:02 min read
- 96 Views
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"An Inventor" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 29 Apr. 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/4068/an-inventor>.
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