Analysis of The Calm
John Donne 1572 (London) – 1631 (London)
Our storm is past, and that storm's tyrannous rage,
A stupid calm, but nothing it, doth 'suage.
The fable is inverted, and far more
A block afflicts, now, than a stork before.
Storms chafe, and soon wear out themselves, or us;
In calms, Heaven laughs to see us languish thus.
As steady'as I can wish that my thoughts were,
Smooth as thy mistress' glass, or what shines there,
The sea is now; and, as the isles which we
Seek, when we can move, our ships rooted be.
As water did in storms, now pitch runs out;
As lead, when a fir'd church becomes one spout.
And all our beauty, and our trim, decays,
Like courts removing, or like ended plays.
The fighting-place now seamen's rags supply;
And all the tackling is a frippery.
No use of lanthorns; and in one place lay
Feathers and dust, to-day and yesterday.
Earth's hollownesses, which the world's lungs are,
Have no more wind than the upper vault of air.
We can nor lost friends nor sought foes recover,
But meteor-like, save that we move not, hover.
Only the calenture together draws
Dear friends, which meet dead in great fishes' jaws;
And on the hatches, as on altars, lies
Each one, his own priest, and own sacrifice.
Who live, that miracle do multiply,
Where walkers in hot ovens do not die.
If in despite of these we swim, that hath
No more refreshing than our brimstone bath;
But from the sea into the ship we turn,
Like parboil'd wretches, on the coals to burn.
Like Bajazet encag'd, the shepherds' scoff,
Or like slack-sinew'd Samson, his hair off,
Languish our ships. Now as a myriad
Of ants durst th' emperor's lov'd snake invade,
The crawling gallies, sea-gaols, finny chips,
Might brave our pinnaces, now bed-rid ships.
Whether a rotten state, and hope of gain,
Or to disuse me from the queasy pain
Of being belov'd and loving, or the thirst
Of honour, or fair death, out-push'd me first,
I lose my end; for here, as well as I,
A desperate may live, and a coward die.
Stag, dog, and all which from or towards flies,
Is paid with life or prey, or doing dies.
Fate grudges us all, and doth subtly lay
A scourge, 'gainst which we all forget to pray.
He that at sea prays for more wind, as well
Under the poles may beg cold, heat in hell.
What are we then? How little more, alas,
Is man now, than before he was? He was
Nothing; for us, we are for nothing fit;
Chance, or ourselves, still disproportion it.
We have no power, no will, no sense; I lie,
I should not then thus feel this misery.
Scheme | AABBCCDEFFGGHHIBJJKEDDLLMNIIOOPPQQRSTTUUVVIIMMJJWWXYZZIF |
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Poetic Form | |
Metre | 1011101111 0101110111 0101010011 0101110101 1101110111 01101111101 11011111110 1111011111 0111010111 11111101101 1101011111 11101010111 011010010101 1101011101 0101110101 01010101 111100111 100111010 1110111 11111010111 11111111010 110011111110 10010101 1111101101 0101011101 111110110 111100110 1100110111 1001111111 11010110101 1101010111 11110111 1110101 111110111 10101110100 111111001101 01011111 111011111 1001010111 1101110101 11001010101 111111111 1111111111 0101100101 1101111011 1111111101 11011011001 0111110111 1111111111 1001111101 1111110101 1111011111 1011111101 11001111 11110111111 1111111100 |
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 2,518 |
Words | 455 |
Sentences | 24 |
Stanzas | 1 |
Stanza Lengths | 56 |
Lines Amount | 56 |
Letters per line (avg) | 33 |
Words per line (avg) | 8 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 1,862 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 453 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on April 25, 2023
- 2:20 min read
- 125 Views
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"The Calm" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 23 May 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/22588/the-calm>.
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