The Eve of St Agnes
Spenserian stanzas: All the same length.
St. Agnes' Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; The night is so frigid that even the animals
The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass, are feeling it.
And silent was the flock in woolly fold:
The stem of his breath in the cold is ‘loaded’ with
Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told
prayers, going straight to heaven ‘without a
His rosary, and while his frosted breath,
death’.
Like pious incense from a censer old,
Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death, His breath = holy; doesn’t have to die to get to
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith. heaven
His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man; (meek, barefoot and weak)
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees,
Status of deceased ancestors.
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan,
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees: Despite being inhuman they aren’t immune to
The sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to freeze, the effects of cold.
Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails: Stuck, frozen. – in state of constant prayer and in
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries, purgatory.
He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails
To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. The beadsman ‘fails’ to think about the statues
and how they are effected by the cold
Northward he turneth through a little door,
And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue Personification – the beadsman is greeted by music
Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor; with a golden tongue.
But no—already had his deathbell rung;
The joys of all his life were said and sung: Death is coming
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve:
His own death
Another way he went, and soon among
Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve, Grieving for the other sinners
And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve.
That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft; The music in the previous stanza was inviting and soft,
And so it chanc'd, for many a door was wide, however now it seems more aggressive
From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft,
Artistic creations taking on human agency
The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide:
The level chambers, ready with their pride, It sounds like these people are having quite the party
Were glowing to receive a thousand guests:
The carved angels, ever eager-eyed, There is so much coming and going that they can’t
Star'd, where upon their heads the cornice rests, keep the doors closed
With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts. Lively angels staring down
Spenserian stanzas: All the same length.
St. Agnes' Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; The night is so frigid that even the animals
The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass, are feeling it.
And silent was the flock in woolly fold:
The stem of his breath in the cold is ‘loaded’ with
Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told
prayers, going straight to heaven ‘without a
His rosary, and while his frosted breath,
death’.
Like pious incense from a censer old,
Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death, His breath = holy; doesn’t have to die to get to
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith. heaven
His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man; (meek, barefoot and weak)
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees,
Status of deceased ancestors.
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan,
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees: Despite being inhuman they aren’t immune to
The sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to freeze, the effects of cold.
Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails: Stuck, frozen. – in state of constant prayer and in
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries, purgatory.
He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails
To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. The beadsman ‘fails’ to think about the statues
and how they are effected by the cold
Northward he turneth through a little door,
And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue Personification – the beadsman is greeted by music
Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor; with a golden tongue.
But no—already had his deathbell rung;
The joys of all his life were said and sung: Death is coming
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve:
His own death
Another way he went, and soon among
Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve, Grieving for the other sinners
And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve.
That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft; The music in the previous stanza was inviting and soft,
And so it chanc'd, for many a door was wide, however now it seems more aggressive
From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft,
Artistic creations taking on human agency
The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide:
The level chambers, ready with their pride, It sounds like these people are having quite the party
Were glowing to receive a thousand guests:
The carved angels, ever eager-eyed, There is so much coming and going that they can’t
Star'd, where upon their heads the cornice rests, keep the doors closed
With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts. Lively angels staring down
