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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

HEXAMETERS by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

Poet Analysis

First Line: WILLIAM, MY TEACHER, MY FRIEND! DEAR WILLIAM AND DEAR DOROTHEA
Last Line: YOU HAVE ALL IN EACH OTHER; BUT I AM LONELY, AND WANT YOU!
William, my teacher, my friend! dear William and dear Dorothea!
Smooth out the folds of my letter, and place it on desk or on table;
Place it on table or desk; and your right hands loosely half-closing,
Gently sustain them in air, and extending the digit didactic,
Rest it a moment on each of the forks of the five-forked left hand,
Twice on the breadth of the thumb, and once on the tip of each finger;
Read with a nod of the head in a humouring recitativo;
And, as I live, you will see my hexameters hopping before you.
This is a galloping measure; a hop, and a trot, and a gallop!
All my hexameters fly, like stags pursued by the stag-hounds,
Breathless and panting, and ready to drop, yet flying still onwards.
I would full fain pull in my hard-mouthed runaway hunter;
But our English Spondeans are clumsy yet impotent curb-reins;
And so to make him go slowly, no way have I left but to lame him.
William, my head and my heart! dear Poet that feelest and thinkest!
Dorothy, eager of soul, my most affectionate sister!
Many a mile, O! many a wearisome mile are ye distant,
Long, long, comfortless roads, with no one eye that doth know us.
O! it is all too far to send to you mockeries idle:
Yea, and I feel it not right! But O! my friends, my beloved!
Feverish and wakeful I lie, -- I am weary of feeling and thinking.
Every thought is worn down, -- I am weary, yet cannot be vacant.
Five long hours have I tossed, rheumatic heats, dry and flushing,
Gnawing behind in my head, and wandering and throbbing about me,
Busy and tiresome, my friends, as the beat of the boding nightspider.
I forget the beginning of the line:
...my eyes are
Now unwillingly closed, now open and aching with darkness.
O! what a life is the eye! what a fine and inscrutable essence!
Him that is utterly blind, nor glimpses the fire that warms him;
Him that never beheld the swelling breast of his mother;
Him that ne'er smiled at the bosom as babe that smiles in its slumber;
Even to him it exists, it stirs and moves in its prison;
Lives with a separate life, and 'Is it the spirit?' he murmurs:
Sure, it has thoughts of its own, and to see is only its language.
There was a great deal more, which I have forgotten... The
last line which
William, my head and my heart! dear William and dear Dorothea!
You have all in each other; but I am lonely, and want you!



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