Analysis of Milking Time
There's a drip of honeysuckle in the deep green lane;
There's old Martin jogging homeward on his worn old wain;
There are cherry petals falling, and a cuckoo calling, calling,
And a score of larks (God bless 'em) . . . but it's all pain, pain.
For you see I am not really there at all, not at all;
For you see I'm in the trenches where the crump-crumps fall;
And the bits o' shells are screaming and it's only blessed dreaming
That in fancy I am seeming back in old Saint Pol.
Oh I've thought of it so often since I've come down here;
And I never dreamt that any place could be so dear;
The silvered whinstone houses, and the rosy men in blouses,
And the kindly, white-capped women with their eyes spring-clear.
And mother's sitting knitting where her roses climb,
And the angelus is calling with a soft, soft chime,
And the sea-wind comes caressing, and the light's a golden blessing,
And Yvonne, Yvonne is guessing that it's milking time.
Oh it's Sunday, for she's wearing of her broidered gown;
And she draws the pasture pickets and the cows come down;
And their feet are powdered yellow, and their voices honey-mellow,
And they bring a scent of clover, and their eyes are brown.
And Yvonne is dreaming after, but her eyes are blue;
And her lips are made for laughter, and her white teeth too;
And her mouth is like a cherry, and a dimple mocking merry
Is lurking in the very cheek she turns to you.
So I walk beside her kindly, and she laughs at me;
And I heap her arms with lilac from the lilac tree;
And a golden light is welling, and a golden peace is dwelling,
And a thousand birds are telling how it's good to be.
And what are pouting lips for if they can't be kissed?
And I've filled her arms with blossom so she can't resist;
And the cows are sadly straying, and her mother must be saying
That Yvonne is long delaying . . . God! How close that missed.
A nice polite reminder that the Boche are nigh;
That we're here to fight like devils, and if need-be die;
That from kissing pretty wenches to the frantic firing-benches
Of the battered, tattered trenches is a far, far cry.
Yet still I'm sitting dreaming in the glare and grime;
And once again I'm hearing of them church-bells chime;
And how I wonder whether in the golden summer weather
We will fetch the cows together when it's milking time. . . .
(English voice, months later): --
"Ow Bill! A rottin' Frenchy. Whew! 'E ain't 'arf prime."
Scheme | AABACCBC XDXDEEBE FFXFGGHG HHBHIIBI JJXJEEKE K E |
---|---|
Poetic Form | |
Metre | 101110000111 1110101011111 111010100011010 0011111111111 11111110111111 1111001010111 001111100110110 1010111010111 1111111011111 0110111011111 0111000101010 0010111011111 010101010101 00111010111 0011101000101010 0010111011101 11111101011 0110101000111 0111101001101010 0110111001111 0011101010111 0011111000111 0011101000101010 110001011111 1110101001111 01101111011 0010111000101110 0010111011111 011101111111 0110111011101 0011101000101110 1011101011111 010101010111 1111111001111 1110101010101010 1010101010111 111101000101 010111011111 011101000101010 1110101011101 101110 1101111111 |
Closest metre | Iambic heptameter |
Characters | 2,377 |
Words | 442 |
Sentences | 26 |
Stanzas | 7 |
Stanza Lengths | 8, 8, 8, 8, 8, 1, 1 |
Lines Amount | 42 |
Letters per line (avg) | 44 |
Words per line (avg) | 11 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 263 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 64 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 2:18 min read
- 57 Views
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"Milking Time" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 12 Jun 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/32248/milking-time>.
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