Chapter 4

Chapter 45,190 wordsPublic domain

in regular sequence. It comprises, therefore, a point of emphasis and all that occupies the time-distance between that point of emphasis and the following one. In other words, a foot is a section of speech-rhythm containing a stressed element and an unstressed element, usually one or two unaccented syllables. So much is clear and undisputed in theory. But there are few single topics on which writers on English prosody are so much at variance as on the further, more accurate definition of the foot. One of the main sources of difficulty, however, is easily removed. The metrical foot is not a natural division of language, like the word or the phrase, but an arbitrary division, like the bar in music, an abstraction having no existence independent of the larger rhythm of which it is a part. The analogy between the metrical foot and the musical bar is very close: they are both artificial sections of rhythm which either in whole or in part may be grouped into such phrases as the ideas or melodies may require.[23] They may be isolated and treated by themselves only for the purposes of analysis, for they are merely theoretical entities, like the chemical elements. There is no reason, therefore, that the foot should correspond with word divisions, no objection to the falling of different syllables of one word into different feet. Thus in Gray's line

The cur | few tolls | the knell | of part | ing day

both _curfew_ and _parting_ are divided.[24] Further, the division between clauses may fall in the middle of a foot, as in Wordsworth's lines

The world | is too | much with | us; late | and soon Getting and spending we lay waste our powers.

But another difficulty remains, which is apparent in the second line just quoted from Wordsworth. The general rhythm of the whole sonnet of which these two lines are the beginning is plainly duple rising, or iambic. The first line and the latter part of the second are easily divisible into iambs; but how shall _Getting and spend_- be divided? Clearly _and spend_- is an iamb, but _Getting_ is not. Can trochees and iambs occur together in the same line without either obscuring or actually destroying the rhythm? The simpler solution would be to keep the whole line in rising rhythm by regarding -_ing and spend_- as the second foot and ‸ _Gett_- as the first. (The sign ‸ indicates a missing syllable or musical rest. See below, page 63.)

The most common feet are the iamb, the trochee, the anapest, and the dactyl (see above, page 38), to which may be added the spondee. The names are borrowed, not quite felicitously, from classical prosody. Various symbols are in use:

FOOT SYMBOLS EXAMPLES

iamb ◡_̷ X ̷ _xa_ alone, despair, to walk. trochee _̷◡ ̷ X _ax_ study, backward, talk to. anapest ◡◡_̷ X X ̷ _xxa_ interdict, to permit, dactyl _̷◡◡ ̷ X X _axx_ tenderly, after the. spondee _̷_̷ ̷ ̷ _aa_ stone deaf, broad-browed.

Classical prosody distinguished several other feet, some of which are occasionally mentioned in treatises on English verse: amphibrach ◡_◡, tribrach ◡◡◡, pyrrhic ◡◡, paeon _◡◡◡, choriamb _◡◡_.

The objection to the use of these classical terms is not so serious as is frequently supposed. Since Greek and Latin prosody was primarily quantitative, that is, based upon syllabic length, and every long syllable was theoretically equal to two short syllables, an iamb or ◡-had the musical value of ♪♩, a trochee of ♩♪, a dactyl of ♩♪♪, etc. And since no such definite musical valuation can be given to English feet, a Greek iamb and an English iamb are obviously different. But after all there was inevitably an element of stress in the classical feet, and there is a very positive element of time in the English, so that the difference is not so great, and no confusion need result once the facts are recognized. Another set of terms, however, borrowed from the Greek and Latin is open to more grave objection, for no real equivalence exists between the classical and the modern phenomena. The _iambic trimeter_ in Greek consists of three dipodies or six iambs; as used by English prosodists it consists of three iambs. The Greek _trochaic tetrameter_, similarly, contains eight trochees, the English 'trochaic tetrameter' but four. The common term _iambic pentameter_ is not so objectionable, but is to be rejected because of its similarity to the others, which are actually confusing.

The next larger metrical unit after the foot is the _line_ or _verse_. It is distinguished (1) mechanically by the custom of printing, (2) phonetically by the pause usual at the end, and (3) structurally by its use as a unit in forming the stanza. Lines are of one, two, three, or more feet, according to the metrical form used by the poet (see Chapter IV). In rimed verse the end of the line is so emphasized that the line itself stands out as a very perceptible rhythmic unit; in unrimed verse, however, the line is frequently not felt as a unit at all, but is so interwoven with the natural prose rhythm of the words as to be almost indistinguishable to the ear, though of course visible to the eye on the printed page. This fact is easily apparent in reading the second, fifth, and sixth illustrative selections on pages 43, 44.

The _stanza_ or _strophe_ is a combination of two or more lines of the same or varying lengths, according to a regular pattern chosen by the poet. 'Irregular' stanzas sometimes occur, in which the thought rhythm is said to control and determine the stanzaic rhythm; that is, the length of line and position of rimes are regulated by the logical and emotional content of the words. On the various kinds of stanzaic structure, see pages 88 ff., below.

* * * * *

_Metrical Patterns._ It must be fully understood that these metrical patterns of line and stanza are purely formal. They are the bottles into which the poet pours his liquid meaning, or better, the sketched-in squares over which the painter, copying from an old masterpiece, draws and paints his figures. They have no literal or concrete existence. They are no more the music of verse than

is the music of a waltz. They are absolutely fixed and predetermined (though the poet may invent new patterns if he chooses). But he uses them _only as forms_ on which he arranges his words and phrases. For the rhythm of language is extremely soft and malleable: by skilful handling it can be moulded into an infinite variety of shapes. Perhaps the comparison of a stanza by John Donne with a stanza by W.B. Yeats, both based on the same metrical scheme, will help to make this clear. The formal scheme is

◡_̷◡_◡_̷◡_̷◡_̷

Death, be not proud, though some have callèd thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so: For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me. JOHN DONNE, Death.

When you are old and gray and full of sleep And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep. W. B. YEATS, When You are Old.

Even more striking is the difference of rhythmical effect observable in reading, one after the other, a page of Pope's heroic couplets in the Essay on Man, of Keats's same couplets in Endymion, and Browning's same couplets in My Last Duchess.

While the formal pattern remains fixed and inflexible, over its surface may be embroidered variations of almost illimitable subtlety and change; but _always the formal pattern must be visible, audible_. The poet's skill lies largely in preserving a balance of the artistic principles of variety in uniformity and uniformity in variety. Once he lets go the design, he loses his metrical rhythm and writes mere prose. Once we cease to hear and feel the faint regular beating of the metronome we fail to get the enjoyment of sound that it is the proper function of metre to give. On the other hand, if the mechanical design stands out too plainly, if the beat of the metronome becomes for an instant more prominent than the music of the words, then also the artistic pleasure is gone, for too much uniformity is as deadly to art as too much variety.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

These verses are regular (as is appropriate for the theme), and vary comparatively little from the formal metrical pattern. The coincidence of prose rhythm and metrical rhythm is almost complete. Yet by means of small subtleties of variation in pause, word order, long and short syllables, Gray always saves the poem from monotony. How far the variations may be carried, how much the ear may be depended upon for rhythmic substitution and syncopation, is determined by many things. Certain lines are unmistakably metrical to all ears and in all positions--such as these verses of Gray's Elegy. Certain lines are generally felt to contain daring variations and yet be successful and effective--such as

The blue Mediterranean, where he lay. SHELLEY, Ode to the West Wind.

Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn. TENNYSON, Small Sweet Idyl, in The Princess.

Other lines stretch our metrical sense to the breaking point, and according to individual taste we judge them bold or too bold--such as Tennyson's

Take your own time, Annie, take your own time. Enoch Arden.

or Milton's

Burnt after them to the bottomless pit. Paradise Lost, VI, 866.

In all of these examples the metrical pattern is the same: five consecutive iambs. The modifications illustrate plainly the extraordinary flexibility of language.

* * * * *

_Time and Stress._ Probably the most disputed point in all prosodic theory is the relative importance of time (duration, syllabic length) and stress (accent) in English verse. Some writers have attempted to explain all the phenomena entirely by stress; others entirely by time. Neither side, of course, has been very successful.[25] The difficulty is partly one of theory and partly one of correct analysis of the facts. Thanks, now, to the attention paid in recent decades by the experimental psychologists to rhythm and metre, we are in a position to reach at least approximate clearness on this vexed point. Since the older theorists have mostly started either from the traditional conceptions of classical prosody or from examination of but a part of the phenomena, their work may be left out of account here. Certainly no great blame attaches to them; they are the Bacons and Harveys and Newtons of metrical science. A more nearly correct analysis of the facts is possible now because with the minutely accurate instruments of the scientists to aid us we need no longer trust to the uncertainties of perception and statement of separate individuals. Of course no one today holds the extreme belief that science explains everything; and of course the scientific experiments on the nature and effect of rhythm must have a starting point in the personal equations of those who have submitted themselves to the scientific tests. With all its patience and thoroughness of investigation, experimental psychology is only now establishing itself. But it does offer, on this one mooted point of versification, invaluable help.

+--------------------------------------------------------------+ | [25] An historical survey of the problems and theories, | | somewhat colored by the author's own theory, may be found in | | English Metrists, Oxford, 1921, by T. S. Omond. | +--------------------------------------------------------------+

The theory presented in the previous pages states that sound rhythm consists of a succession of points of emphasis separated by equal time divisions. This is the ideal rhythm. When subjected to the conditions of metrical language it suffers two alterations. In the first place, our notions of time are extremely untrustworthy. Days vanish in a moment and they drag like years. Very few of us can estimate correctly the passage of five minutes: syllables are uttered in a few hundredths of a second. We are satisfied with the accuracy shown by an orchestra in keeping time; but if we took a metronome to the concert we should find the orchestra very deficient in its sense of time. The fact is that the orchestra knows better than the metronome, that perfectly accurate time intervals become unpleasantly monotonous, that we rebel at 'mechanical' music. Thus the time divisions of pleasurable rhythm are not mathematically equal, nor even necessarily approximately equal, but are such as are _felt to be equal_. The second alteration of ideal rhythm is that which results from the conformity of fluid language to its metrical mould. This metrical scheme, based theoretically on equal time units marked by equal stresses, becomes a compromise of uneven stresses and apparently equal time divisions.

Almost every line of verse is a proof of this: both the fact and the explanation are clear when approached from the right angle, and may be tested by carefully prepared statistics. In the following examples the figures beneath each syllable give the time of utterance in tenths and one-hundredths of a second; the figures in parentheses represent pauses.[26] The first, from Paradise Lost, II, 604-614, is in blank verse, with five iambic feet to a line; the second, from Shelley's The Cloud, is apparently irregular, but the basis is clearly anapestic. The ideal rhythm or metrical pattern of the first is

◡_̷◡_̷◡_̷◡_̷◡_̷

regularly repeated. The ideal rhythm of the second is

◡◡_̷◡◡_̷◡◡_̷◡◡_̷ ◡◡_̷◡◡_̷(◡◡_̷)

six times repeated.[27]

+--------------------------------------------------------------+ | [26] I take these figures from the two articles by Professor | | Ada L. F. Snell in the Publications of the Modern Language | | Association for September, 1918, pp. 396-408, and September, | | 1919, pp. 416-435. For the first example I have made an | | average from the records of three different readers; for the | | second Miss Snell gives only one set of figures. | | | | [27] The second and fourth lines have two feet each, the | | alternate lines throughout the rest of the poem have three | | feet each; but it is noteworthy that the average length of | | these two short lines (1.61) is only .37 less than the | | average of the four longer lines (1.98). The first, third, | | fifth, etc., lines have four feet each. | +--------------------------------------------------------------+

They fer-ry o - ver this Le-the-an sound .29 .36 .15 .24 .13 .26 .23 .23 .23 .62 (.18)

Both to and fro, their sor-row to aug-ment, .41 .27 .2 .63 (.36).26 .4 .16 .24 .32 .43 (.6)

And wish and strug-gle, as they pass, to reach .2 .47 .25 .33 .25 (.13) .21 .21 .57 (.4) .24 .35

The tempt-ing stream, with one small drop to lose .14 .32 .3 .69 (.44) .24 .37 .53 .47 (.09).21 .47

In sweet for-get-ful-ness all pain and woe, .2 .37 .19 .28 .17 .25 (.1) .39 .53 .17 .52 (.59)

All in one mo-ment and so near the brink; .42 .2 .21 .34 .3 (.47) .27 .28 .37 .11 .57 (.49)

But Fate with-stands, and, to op - pose the attempt .23 .39 .28 .66 (.49).22 .18 .11 .48 .23 .52 (.33)

Me - du - sa with Gor-go-nian ter-ror guards .15 .33 .15 .21 .3 .3 .23 .28 .21 .51

The ford, and of it-self the wa - ter flies .14 .6 (.3) .27 .2 .2 .48 .13 .25 .22 .64

All taste of liv-ing wight, as once it fled .26 .48 .16 .19 .18 .43 (.5) .29 .39 .16 .43

The lip of Tan - ta -lus. .1 .32 .14 .33 .15 .3

* * * * *

I bring fresh showers for the thirst-ing flowers, .25 .35 .15 .8 (.15) .15 .15 .3 .2 .6 (.2)

From the seas and the streams; .2 .18 .42 .15 .15 .62 (.75)

I bear light shade for the leaves when laid .2 .35 .3 .5 .18 .18 .34 .4 .45

In their noon-day dreams. .18 .2 .22 .2 .7 (.6)

From my wings are shak-en the dews that wak - en .25 .35 .44 .22 .3 .2 .1 .6 .2 .25 .25

The sweet buds ev - ery one, .1 .35 .53 (.15) .2 .21 .5 (.55)

When rocked to rest on their moth - er's breast, .18 .47 .2 .4 (.2) .18 .2 .22 .18 .47 (.4)

As she danc - es a - bout the sun. .2 .2 .45 .2 .1 .25 .2 .5 (.85)

I wield the flail of the lash - ing hail, .22 .22 .1 .5 .15 .15 .25 .15 .45 (.3)

And whit - en the green plains un - der, .2 .22 .18 .1 .32 .5 .2 .2 (.5)

And then a - gain I dis - solve in rain, .22 .38 .1 .55 .15 .2 .7 .15 .55 (.07)

And laugh as I pass in thun - der. .2 .4 (.2) .15 .18 .39 .18 .22 .25

Two facts emerge from these statistics at once: (1) that in about 90 per cent of the feet the ◡ or unstressed element is shorter than the _̷ or stressed element, or, in other words, stress and syllabic length nearly always coincide; and (2) that while there is very great variation in the absolute lengths of short syllables and long syllables, the proportion of average lengths is about 2:4.[28] One need not suppose that the conscious mind always hears or thinks it hears the syllables pronounced with these quantitative proportions. Though we deceive ourselves very readily in the matter of time, it is not true that we have no sense of duration whatever. Quite the contrary. Our cerebral metronome is set when we read verse for about .6 seconds for a foot (.2 seconds for the unstressed element;.4 seconds for the stressed element). If we read faster or more slowly the proportions remain the same. When, however, in Paradise Lost, II, 607,

◡ _̷ ◡ _̷ with one small drop .24 .37 .53 .47

the normal proportions are so patently departed from that the theoretically unstressed syllable _small_ is actually longer than the theoretically stressed syllable _drop_, and the foot _small drop_ takes 1. second, or 2/5 longer than the average foot beside it (_with one_, .61 seconds)--when divergences so great as this are both possible and pleasurable, the conclusion should be, not that the ear makes no recognition of the time, but that it is capable, by syncopation and substitution, of adjusting itself to a very great possibility of variation without losing hold of the rhythmic pattern. Looked at from one point of view, the extreme variations would appear to be irregularities and warrant the judgment that no element of duration exists as a principle of English verse; but from the right point of view these variations mean only that the metrical time unit is extraordinarily elastic while still remaining a unit; that the ear is willing and able to pay very high for the _variety_ in uniformity which it requires.

+--------------------------------------------------------------+ | [28] This statement is based on Miss Snell's computations | | from analysis of several records for blank verse and several | | kinds of lyric verse. The short syllables range in blank | | verse from .02 to .54, in lyrics from .09 to .7; the long | | syllables range in blank verse from .08 to .84, in lyrics | | from .11 to .92. The average length of all long syllables is | | .4, of all short syllables is .21. | +--------------------------------------------------------------+

* * * * *

_Pause._ The time element of English verse is affected also by different kinds of pauses. Three kinds may be distinguished, two of which belong properly to prose rhythm as well. (1) The _logical_ pause is that cessation of sound which separates the logical components of speech. It helps hold together the members of a unit and separates the units from each other, and never occurs unless a break in the meaning is possible. It is usually indicated in printed language by punctuation. (2) The _rhythmical_ pause separates the breath groups of a sentence and therefore concerns language chiefly as a series of sounds independent for the most part of logical content or symbolism. Though its origin is primarily physiological, it soon induces a psychological state and results in an overuse or overdevelopment of the cerebral metronome. Both readers and writers get into a certain 'swing' which turns to monotony and sing-song in reading and to excessive uniformity of sentence length and structure in writing--what is called a jog-trot style. This pause as it affects the reading of verse is only slightly dependent upon the logical content of words, for it takes its pace, especially in rimed verse, from the normal line length, and tends to make every line sound like every other, regardless of the meaning. (3) _Metrical_ pause is primarily independent of the other two, but most frequently falls in with them. It belongs to the formal metrical pattern, and serves usually to mark off the line units. There is thus theoretically a pause at the end of every line, and a greater pause at the end of every stanza. When verses are 'run on,' i. e., when there is no logical pause at the end, many readers omit the metrical pause or reduce it to a minimum. Others, whose rhythmic sense is very keen, preserve it, making it very slight but still perceptible. The metrical pause is greatly emphasized by rime.

There are two other time elements in English verse, related in different ways to each of these three pauses, one which is nearly equivalent to the musical _rest_; the other which is nearly equivalent to the musical _hold_. The latter is common to both verse and prose, and is emotional or elocutionary in origin; "If....," "Well----?" "'_These_ roses?' she drawled." In verse it often coincides with and supports a metrical pause, especially on rime words. Many readers in fact combine the hold and the metrical pause or use them interchangeably. The former, the _rest_, is a pause used to take the place of an unstressed element. As such, however, it does not altogether compensate the break in the normal time-space, but fills in the omission sufficiently to preserve the rhythm of the verse.

These various pauses are all well illustrated in Tennyson's lyric, Break, Break, Break.

Break, break, break, .5 (.6) .5 (.28) .6 (.3)

On thy cold grey stones, O sea! .35 .3 .6 .5 .7 (.15) .3 .55 (.65)

And I would that my tongue could ut - ter .2 .2 .4 .2 .25 .4 .18 .18 .3 (.35)

The thoughts that a - rise in me. .2 .5 .3 .2 .4 .3 .5 (.8)

O, well for the fish - er - man's boy .6 .6 .2 .2 .22 .15 .45 .6 (.55)

That he shouts with his sis - ter at play! .2 .18 .55 .25 .2 .35 .18 .2 .6 (.9)

O, well for the sail - or lad .5 (.3) .61 .25 .3 .55 .2 .5 (.45)

That he sings in his boat on the bay. .18 .18 .55 .25 .2 .45 .15 .15 .6

Logical pauses occur at the end of ll. 2, 4, 6, 8; and probably after _stones_ in l. 2. After _stones_ there would be also a rhythmic pause, but it is reinforced and practically replaced by the logical pause. Another rhythmic pause might occur after _tongue_ in l. 3, but it is absorbed partly by the length of _tongue_ and partly by the necessity of preserving the line rhythm through _utter_. It will be felt, however, if the lines are read thus:

And I would that my tongue Could utter the thoughts That arise In me.

The metrical pause appears clearly after _utter_ in l. 3. The pauses after _boy_ (l. 5) and _lad_ (l. 7) are both metrical and logical. The hold is illustrated by _O_ in l. 5 and l. 7. [29] The rest appears distinctly in l. 1. From reading the whole poem we know that the movement is anapestic. The pattern rhythm for the first line would be

◡◡_̷ ◡◡_̷ ◡◡_̷ Break break break

The number of syllables is three, whereas the other lines have from seven to nine syllables each. That is, before each _break_ two light syllables, or their time equivalent, are lacking, their place being supplied by the rest-pause (which is also logical and emotional).[30]

+--------------------------------------------------------------+ | [29] In the latter case it is supplemented by a pause in | | Miss Snell's marking. Many readers would no doubt combine | | the hold and pause; as was done in fact in l. 5. | | | | [30] It should be noted that the average line length here | | (including pauses within the line, excluding those at the | | end of the line) is 2.8, and the first line is therefore | | only .32 shorter than the average. If additional allowance | | (omitted in Miss Snell's computation) be made for the | | theoretical initial ◡◡ the average would be 2.85 and l. 1 | | would total 2.92. If the end pause is included the average | | would be 3.38 and l. 1 2.78--a difference of .66; or with | | the additional allowance the average would be 3.44 and l. 1 | | 3.22. While too much faith is not to be placed in the mere | | figures, the inference is plain that the rests practically | | compensate here for the omitted ◡◡. | +--------------------------------------------------------------+

The reader may analyze the comparative lengths of foot, line, pause, and rest in the following record:[31]

Kent-ish Sir Bing stood for the king, .4 .32 .46 .8 (.2) .5 .18 .16 .8 (.6)

Bid-ding the crop-head-ed par-lia-ment swing; .26 .2 .12 .45 .3 .2 .4 .1 .35 .72 (.6)

And, press-ing a troop un - ab - le to stoop, .2 .38 .12 .1 .55 (.2) .18 .26 .12 .2 .58 (.5)

And see the rogues flour-ish and hon - est folk droop; .22 .35 .15 .5 .6 .2 (.2) .26 .45 .18 .35 .48 (.75)

Marched then a - long fif - ty - score strong .52 .22 .12 .8 (.14) .35 .25 .5 .7 (.7)

Great-heart-ed gent-le-men, sing-ing this song. .35 .3 .2 .3 .12 .3 (.45) .44 .25 .28 .68 (.9)

God for King Charles! Pym and such carles .6 .46 .5 .8 (.5) .38 .26 .3 .85 (.42)

To the Dev - il that prompts them their treas-on-ous parles! .18 .18 .35 .25 .42 .5 .38 .2 .38 .1 .32 .75 (.55)

Cav - a - liers, up! Lips from the cup. .35 .15 .5 (.4) .5 (.4) .6 .3 .12 .4

+--------------------------------------------------------------+ | [31] Miss Snell, Pause; a Study of its Nature and its | | Rhythmical Function in Verse (Ann Arbor, 1918), pp. 78, 79. | +--------------------------------------------------------------+

* * * * *

_Pitch._ Pitch appears to be sometimes a determining element in rhythm, as has been shown above; but since its chief function in verse is that of supporting the recognized determinants and adding grace-notes to the music, it is omitted here and discussed in Chapter V, below.

* * * * *

_Balance of Forces._ It is not to be inferred from the foregoing sections that the basis of English metre is time. For the basis of English metre is dual: time and stress are inextricable. Beneath all metrical language runs the invisible current of time, but the surface is marked by stress. The warp of the metrical fabric is time; stress is the woof. And from the surface, of course, only the woof is visible. Moreover, the poet's point of view in composing and generally the reader's point of view in reading has always been that of the 'stresser.' No poet ever wrote to a metronome accompaniment; extremely few readers are fully conscious--few can be, from the nature of our human sense of time--of the temporal rhythm that underlies verse. Thus it has come about, historically, that modern English verse is written and regarded as a matter of stress only, because to the superficial view stress is predominant.[32] Probably the truth is that most poets compose verse with the ideal metrical scheme definitely in mind and trust (as they well may) to their rhythmical instinct for the rest. Whatever device they employ for keeping the pattern always before them, they do keep it distinctly before them--except perhaps in the simpler measures which run easily in the ear--and build from it as from a scaffolding. They may not know and may not need to know that this metrical scheme does itself involve equal time units as well as equal stresses. They vary and modulate both time and stress according to the thought and feeling the words are asked to express. And though it is a point on which no one can have a dogmatic opinion, one inclines to the belief that usually the finest adaptations of ideas and words to metre are spontaneous and intuitive. Skill is the result of habit and training, and metrical skill like any other; but there is also the faculty divine. One is suspicious of the

Laborious Orient ivory sphere in sphere;

for when we can see how the trick is done we lose the true thrill.

+--------------------------------------------------------------+ | [32] Modern English verse theory may be dated from | | Coleridge's famous manifesto in the prefatory note to | | Christabel in 1816: "I have only to add that the metre of | | Christabel is not, properly speaking, irregular, though it | | may seem so from its being founded on a new principle: | | namely, that of counting in each line the accents, not the | | syllables. Though the latter may vary from seven to twelve, | | yet in each line the accents will be found to be only four. | | Nevertheless, this occasional variation in number of | | syllables is not introduced wantonly, or for mere ends of | | convenience, but in correspondence with some transition in | | the nature of the imagery or passion." Even here there is | | implied a vague perception of the time unit, but Coleridge | | was apparently unaware of its significance. See Leigh Hunt's | | comments in "What is Poetry?" in Imagination and Fancy. | +--------------------------------------------------------------+

It would be absurd to imagine a prosody which was independent of its own materials. It would be absurd therefore not to find in all language the elements out of which verse is made. Indeed, M. Jourdain, having recovered from his first shock on learning that he had actually been talking prose, must prepare for a second: that he has actually been talking potential verse. The three acoustic properties of speech--duration, intensity, pitch--modified by the logical and emotional content of which the sounds are symbolic, combine to produce an incredibly subtle and elastic medium which the poet moulds to his metrical form. In this process of moulding and adjustment, each element, under the poet's deft handling, yields somewhat to the other, the natural rhythm of language and the formal rhythm of metre; and the result is a delicate, exquisite compromise. When we attempt to analyze it, its finer secrets defy us, but the chief fundamental principles we can discover, and their more significant manifestations we can isolate and learn to know. In all the arts there is a point at which technique merges with idea and conceals the heart of its mystery. The greatest poetry is not always clearly dependent upon metrical power, but it is rarely divorced from it. No one would venture to say how much the metre has to do with the beauty of the

magic casements opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.