Analysis of A Castaway
Augusta Davies Webster 1837 (Poole, Dorset) – 1894
Poor little diary, with its simple thoughts,
its good resolves, its "Studied French an hour,"
"Read Modern History," "Trimmed up my grey hat,"
"Darned stockings," "Tatted," "Practised my new song,"
"Went to the daily service," "Took Bess soup,"
"Went out to tea." Poor simple diary!
and did I write it? Was I this good girl,
this budding colourless young rose of home?
did I so live content in such a life,
seeing no larger scope, nor asking it,
than this small constant round -- old clothes to mend,
new clothes to make, then go and say my prayers,
or carry soup, or take a little walk
and pick the ragged-robins in the hedge?
Then for ambition, (was there ever life
that could forego that?) to improve my mind
and know French better and sing harder songs;
for gaiety, to go, in my best white
well washed and starched and freshened with new bows,
and take tea out to meet the clergyman.
No wishes and no cares, almost no hopes,
only the young girl's hazed and golden dreams
that veil the Future from her.
So long since:
and now it seems a jest to talk of me
as if I could be one with her, of me
who am ...... me.
And what is that? My looking-glass
answers it passably; a woman sure,
no fiend, no slimy thing out of the pools,
a woman with a ripe and smiling lip
that has no venom in its touch I think,
with a white brow on which there is no brand;
a woman none dare call not beautiful,
not womanly in every woman's grace.
Aye let me feed upon my beauty thus,
be glad in it like painters when they see
at last the face they dreamed but could not find
look from their canvass on them, triumph in it,
the dearest thing I have. Why, 'tis my all,
let me make much of it: is it not this,
this beauty, my own curse at once and tool
to snare men's souls -- (I know what the good say
of beauty in such creatures) -- is it not this
that makes me feel myself a woman still,
some little pride, some little --
Here's a jest!
what word will fit the sense but modesty?
A wanton I but modest!
Modest, true;
I'm not drunk in the streets, ply not for hire
at infamous corners with my likenesses
of the humbler kind; yes, modesty's my word --
'twould shape my mouth well too, I think I'll try:
"Sir, Mr What-you-will, Lord Who-knows-what,
my present lover or my next to come,
value me at my worth, fill your purse full,
for I am modest; yes, and honour me
as though your schoolgirl sister or your wife
could let her skirts brush mine or talk of me;
for I am modest."
Well, I flout myself:
but yet, but yet --
Fie, poor fantastic fool,
why do I play the hypocrite alone,
who am no hypocrite with others by?
where should be my "But yet"? I am that thing
called half a dozen dainty names, and none
dainty enough to serve the turn and hide
the one coarse English worst that lurks beneath:
just that, no worse, no better.
And, for me,
I say let no one be above her trade;
I own my kindredship with any drab
who sells herself as I, although she crouch
in fetid garrets and I have a home
all velvet and marqueterie and pastilles,
although she hide her skeleton in rags
and I set fashions and wear cobweb lace:
the difference lies but in my choicer ware,
that I sell beauty and she ugliness;
our traffic's one -- I'm no sweet slaver-tongue
to gloze upon it and explain myself
a sort of fractious angel misconceived --
our traffic's one: I own it. And what then?
I know of worse that are called honourable.
Our lawyers, who, with noble eloquence
and virtuous outbursts, lie to hang a man,
or lie to save him, which way goes the fee:
our preachers, gloating on your future hell
for not believing what they doubt themselves:
our doctors, who sort poisons out by chance,
and wonder how they'll answer, and grow rich:
our journalists, whose business is to fib
and juggle truths and falsehoods to and fro:
our tradesmen, who must keep unspotted names
and cheat the least like stealing that they can:
our -- all of them, the virtuous worthy men
who feed on the world's follies, vices, wants,
and do their businesses of lies and shams
honestly, reputably, while the world
claps hands and cries "good luck," which of their trades,
their honourable trades, barefaced like mine,
all secrets brazened out, would shew more white?
And whom do I hurt more than they? as much?
The wives? Poor fools, what do I take from them
wor
Scheme | ABXXXCDEFGXXXXFHXIXJXXB XCCC XXXXXXKL MCHGXNOXNXK XCP XBXXQXXXCFCP RX OXQXJXXB CXSXEAXLXMXRXTDXUCXXXXSXXUTXAXXXI XXX |
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Poetic Form | |
Metre | 11010011101 11011101110 11010011111 11011111 1101010111 1111110100 0111111111 11011111 1111100101 1011011101 1111011111 1111110111 1101110101 0101010001 1101011101 1101110111 0111001101 11110111 1101010111 0111110100 110011111 1001110101 1101010 111 0111011111 1111111011 111 01111101 1011000101 1111011101 0101010101 1111001111 1011111111 0101111100 110100101 1111011101 1101110111 1101111111 11110111001 0101111111 1111111111 1101111101 1111111011 11001101111 111110101 1101110 101 1111011100 0101110 101 11100111110 11001011100 1010011111 1111111111 1101111111 1101011111 1011111111 111101011 111110111 1101111111 11110 1111 1111 110101 111101001 111101101 1111111111 1101010101 1001110101 0111011101 1111110 011 1111110101 11111101 110111111 0101001101 1100101 111010001 011100111 01001101101 1111001100 1010111111 110110011 0111010001 10101111011 11111111 10101110100 0100111101 1111111101 10101011101 1101011101 10101110111 0101110011 10100110111 010101101 101011111 0101110111 101110100101 1110110101 0111001101 1001101 1101111111 111111 110111111 0111111111 0111111111 1 |
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 4,190 |
Words | 823 |
Sentences | 28 |
Stanzas | 10 |
Stanza Lengths | 23, 4, 8, 11, 3, 12, 2, 8, 33, 3 |
Lines Amount | 107 |
Letters per line (avg) | 31 |
Words per line (avg) | 8 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 327 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 81 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on May 03, 2023
- 4:07 min read
- 261 Views
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"A Castaway" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 10 Jun 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/4060/a-castaway>.
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