Analysis of Death.



If days should pass without a written word
To tell me of thy welfare, and if days
Should lengthen out to weeks, until the maze
Of questioning fears confused me, and I heard.
Life-sounds as echoes; and one came and said
After these weeks of waiting: "He is dead!"

Though the quick sword had found the vital part,
And the life-blood must mingle with the tears,
I think that, as the dying soldier hears
The cries of victory, and feels his heart
Surge with his country's triumph-hour, I could
Hope bravely on, and feel that God was good.

I could take up my thread of life again
And weave my pattern though the colors were
Faded forever. Though I might not dare
Dream often of thee, I should know that when
Death came to thee upon thy lips my name
Lingered, and lingers ever without blame.

Aye, lingers ever. Though we may not know
Much that our spirits crave, yet is it given
To us to feel that in the waiting Heaven
Great souls are greater, and if God bestow
A mighty love He will not let it die
Through the vast ages of eternity.

But if some day the bitter knowledge swept
Down on my life, - bearing my treasured freight
To founder on the shoals of scorn, - what Fate
Smiling with awful irony had kept
Till life grew sweeter, - that my god was clay,
That 'neath thy strength a lurking weakness lay;

That thou, whom I had deemed a man of men
Faulty, as great men are, but with no taint
Of baseness, - with those faults that shew the saint
Of after days, perhaps, - wert even then
When first I loved thee but a spreading tree
Whose leaves shewed not its roots' deformity;

I should not weep, for there are wounds that lie
Too deep for tears, - and Death is but a friend
Who loves too dearly, and the parting end
Of Love's joy-day a paltry pain, a cry
To God, then peace, - beside the torturing grief
When honor dies, and trust, and soul's belief.

Travellers have told that in the Java isles
The upas-tree breathes its dread vapor out
Into the air; there needs no hand about
Its branches for the poison's deadly wiles
To work a strong man's hurt, for there is death
Envenomed, noisome, in his every breath.

So would I breathe thy poison in my soul,
Till all that had been wholesome, pure, and true
Shewed its decay, and stained and wasted grew.
Though sundered as the distant Northern Pole
From his far sister, I should bear thy blight
Upon me as I passed into the night.

Didst dream thy truth and honor meant so much
To me, Dear Heart? Oh! I am full of tears
To-night, of longing, love and foolish fears.
Would I might see thee, know thy tender touch,
For Time is long, and though I may not will
To question Fate, I am a woman still.


Scheme ABBACC DEXDFF GXXGHH IJJIKL MNNMOO GPPGLL KQQKRR STTSUU VWWVXX YEXYZZ
Poetic Form Tetractys  (20%)
Metre 1111010101 111111011 1101110101 11001011011 1111001101 1011110111 1011110101 0011110101 1111010101 0111000111 11110101011 1101011111 1111111101 0111010100 1001011111 1101111111 1111011111 1001010011 1101011111 111010111110 11111001010 1111001101 0101111111 1011010100 1111010101 1111101101 1101011111 1011010011 1111011111 1111010101 1111110111 1011111111 111111101 1101011101 1111110101 1111110100 1111111111 1111011101 1111000101 1111010101 11110101001 1101010101 10011100101 011111101 0101111101 110101101 1101111111 11011001 1111110011 1111110101 1101010101 111010101 1111011111 0111110101 1111010111 1111111111 1111010101 1111111101 1111011111 1101110101
Closest metre Iambic pentameter
Characters 2,596
Words 512
Sentences 15
Stanzas 10
Stanza Lengths 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6
Lines Amount 60
Letters per line (avg) 34
Words per line (avg) 8
Letters per stanza (avg) 204
Words per stanza (avg) 50
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Submitted on August 03, 2020

Modified on March 05, 2023

2:34 min read
3

Sophie M Almon Hensley

Sophie Margaretta Almon Hensley was a Canadian writer and educator. She also published under the names Gordon Hart, J. Try-Davies and Almon Hensley. The daughter of Sarah Frances DeWolfe and Henry Pryor Almon, an Anglican minister, she was born Sophie Margaretta Almon in Bridgetown, Nova Scotia. more…

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