Poems — A Closer Reading

From Sonnet to Rondeau: A Shift in Structure and Speed

The collection is divided into two formal groups: sonnets and rondeaux. The sonnets, such as “Crows” and “Disappointment,” employ the Petrarchan rhyme scheme and a measured, end-stopped rhythm that mirrors their themes of loss and doubt. Lines like “The light has left the hill-side. Yesterday / These skies shewed blue” build a slow, cumulative melancholy. In contrast, the rondeaux adopt a shorter, more repetitive structure, with refrains that accelerate the pace. “I Will Forget” repeats its opening line, creating a circular, almost obsessive rhythm. This formal shift from the sonnet’s fourteen-line argument to the rondeau’s looping refrain marks a deliberate change in narrative voice—from a speaker who observes and reasons to one who feels and insists.

Recurring Motifs: Crows, Twilight, and the Sea

Across the collection, certain images recur with notable frequency. Crows appear not only in the opening poem but also as a symbol of foreboding, their “sable cloud” and “augury” linking nature to psychological terror. Twilight and darkness are persistent settings: “the fading western sky,” “the darkening twilight,” and “the darkening of the woodland way” create a consistent atmosphere of decline. The sea, too, is a constant presence—waves “danced in the bay” in “Disappointment” and later “spent their strength against the unheeding shore” in “Soothing.” These motifs are not merely decorative; they anchor the speaker’s emotional states, from hope to despair to a hard-won peace. The repetition of these images across poems suggests a deliberate, almost symbolic landscape.

The Turn Toward Intimacy in the Later Poems

While the early sonnets address abstract concepts—God, futurity, disappointment—the rondeaux increasingly focus on a specific “you.” Poems like “Brother and Friend” and “Tout pour L'Amour” shift to direct address, with lines such as “Since I am here” and “I care not,—be it so / Since I am here” emphasizing presence over reflection. The voice becomes more urgent and less mediated by nature imagery. In “Soothing,” the final poem, the speaker wanders aimlessly through woods and finds peace not in argument but in sensory immersion: “the woody scent of mosses and sweet ferns, / Mingled with the fresh brine.” This progression from public doubt to private comfort, from formal argument to lyrical repetition, gives the collection a quiet narrative arc, even if the excerpts do not reveal a full plot.

Readers approaching this slim volume may find it rewarding to track the evolution of its speaker’s voice across the two formal sections. The sonnets reward careful attention to their argumentative structure, while the rondeaux invite a more musical, emotional reading. The recurring imagery of crows, twilight, and the sea provides a unifying thread, but the real interest lies in the shift from doubt to devotion—a change that is as much about pace and form as about theme.

I keep returning to that old 1889 collection, especially the way twilight and crows linger there like habits. Sophie’s shift into the present tense felt like someone finally exhaling. It’s curious how those same tender uncertainties echo in Poems of Sentiment — Themes and Context, though from a different distance. I read them side by side on quiet evenings, and the sea always seems nearer afterward.