Moonset
Sir Henry Newbolt 1862 (Bilston, Staffordshire) – 1938 (Kensington, London)
Past seven o'clock: time to be gone;
Twelfth-night's over and dawn shivering up:
A hasty cut of the loaf, a steaming cup,
Down to the door, and there is Coachman John.
Ruddy of cheek is John and bright of eye;
But John it appears has none of your grins and winks;
Civil enough, but short: perhaps he thinks:
Words come once in a mile, and always dry.
Has he a mind or not? I wonder; but soon
We turn through a leafless wood, and there to the right,
Like a sun bewitched in alien realms of night,
Mellow and yellow and rounded hangs the moon.
Strangely near she seems, and terribly great:
The world is dead: why are we travelling still?
Nightmare silence grips my struggling will;
We are driving for ever and ever to find a gate.
'When you come to consider the moon,' says John at last,
And stops, to feel his footing and take his stand;
'And then there's some will say there's never a hand
That made the world!'
A flick, and the gates are passed.
Out of the dim magical moonlit park,
Out to the workday road and wider skies:
There's a warm flush in the East where day's to rise,
And I'm feeling the better for Coachman John's remark.
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 10, 2023
- 1:07 min read
- 97 Views
Quick analysis:
Scheme | XAAX BCCB DEED FGGF HIIXH JKKJ |
---|---|
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 1,117 |
Words | 219 |
Stanzas | 6 |
Stanza Lengths | 4, 4, 4, 4, 5, 4 |
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"Moonset" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 12 Jun 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/35143/moonset>.
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