Analysis of The Artist. (Sonnet I.)
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1807 (Portland) – 1882 (Cambridge)
Nothing the greatest artist can conceive
That every marble block doth not confine
Within itself; and only its design
The hand that follows intellect can achieve.
The ill I flee, the good that I believe,
In thee, fair lady, lofty and divine,
Thus hidden lie; and so that death be mine
Art, of desired success, doth me bereave.
Love is not guilty, then, nor thy fair face,
Nor fortune, cruelty, nor great disdain,
Of my disgrace, nor chance, nor destiny,
If in thy heart both death and love find place
At the same time, and if my humble brain,
Burning, can nothing draw but death from thee.
| Scheme | ABBAABBACDECDE |
|---|---|
| Poetic Form | |
| Metre | 1001010101 11001011101 0101010101 0111010101 0111011101 0111010001 1101011111 11010011101 1111011111 110101101 1101111100 1011110111 1011011101 1011011111 |
| Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
| Characters | 583 |
| Words | 109 |
| Sentences | 4 |
| Stanzas | 1 |
| Stanza Lengths | 14 |
| Lines Amount | 14 |
| Letters per line (avg) | 33 |
| Words per line (avg) | 8 |
| Letters per stanza (avg) | 458 |
| Words per stanza (avg) | 107 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 32 sec read
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"The Artist. (Sonnet I.)" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 20 May 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/18817/the-artist.-%28sonnet-i.%29>.
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